A Letter to Myself, When My Best Friend Is Busy With a Small Child and Messages Are a Week Apart

To me, on a Tuesday evening, twenty past nine, with the rice cooker clicked off long ago and you still have not served yourself.

I know you just scrolled back through the chat with Ngan. Not looking for anything, just your thumb pulling up and up, the way people open an old drawer. Three years ago, every Friday evening the two of you sat in that cafe with the low plastic tables, ordered two iced milk coffees and talked until the owner started stacking chairs on the tables. Now the messages are a week apart.

"Can we meet this weekend?"

"Next week, maybe, the baby has a slight fever."

"Sure, no problem. Hope the little one gets better soon."

Then three days later, one line: "Sorry, only just managed to reply, I am so tired." You typed "no problem at all" very fast and very lightly, like someone stepping over a small hole in the road and not wanting anyone to see them step.

I want to tell you this first: you are not at fault for feeling hollow. Ngan is not at fault for being busy. Both are true, and you do not have to pick one.

You often ask yourself, "Am I angry?" I think the honest answer is no. But it is not nothing either. There is a small thing sitting in between, not big enough to call anger, not small enough to ignore. I think it is missing her. Missing a rhythm you knew, a table, a person you never had to explain yourself to.

There is something you have told nobody, so I will say it for you. At the end-of-month get-together, while everyone circled around nappies, school choices and weaning, you sat holding a coffee whose ice had nearly melted and laughed at exactly the right moments. Very smoothly. And all the while a small voice in your head said, "Maybe I am the one who refuses to grow up?" and another voice answered, "No. I am just on a different stretch, that is all." The two argued all the way home on the motorbike. You opened the door, switched on the light, and realised you had not stopped arguing.

I know you feel ashamed of that first voice, because it sounds like jealousy. There is a little jealousy in it. You do not have to hide that from yourself. It is not wishing she had no child, no home. It is wishing someone were still sitting down at this stretch of road beside you. Called by its right name it weighs far less than when you leave it loose in your stomach.

I forgive you for that jealousy. I forgive Ngan too, because she has not left anyone, she is only running after a two-year-old and nights without enough sleep. As for you, I hope you stop keeping score of who messaged first, who messaged second, how many minutes someone took to answer. That sum has never produced a result that let me rest easy.

I am grateful too. Do not forget this: it was also Ngan who, some night at eleven, just after rocking the baby to sleep, sent a line saying "miss you so much". Those words were real, even though they arrived late and rarely. Some people love you by sitting next to you. Some love you by missing you while they cannot sit next to you. The second kind is harder to see, but it is still love.

One more thing I want to say honestly, even though you may not want to hear it: this friendship may not return to its old rhythm. It may change into another one, sparser, shorter, but still itself. It may also lose some parts it cannot keep. I do not know. I only know you do not have to wait until you know before you are allowed to feel sad.

So I will promise you only a few small things. I will send Ngan one message that does not ask for a reply, something like "saw they are redoing the cafe we used to sit in, missing you". I will propose a different hour, Saturday morning while the baby naps, instead of the Friday evenings of our twenties. I will scroll my phone less to see who is out with whom, because after each scroll I only feel emptier than when I started, much like scrolling for thirty minutes and not remembering what you saw. And I will find one more place to sit, next to the old table, not to replace it.

If you remember there are days I cannot be strong, tonight is one of them, and that is allowed. To myself on the days I cannot be strong is a letter I have reread many times on evenings like this.

Now get up and serve the rice. Cold rice makes nobody sadder, but I think a warm meal this evening is better. Then, if you have the energy, send that message. If you do not, leave it for tomorrow.

I wish you one night without rereading any chat.

Me, on a Tuesday evening, the rice still not served.

P.S. If you want to do one small thing tonight, I have left it here.

When to seek professional support

This article is a letter about the hollow feeling when a best friend moves to another stretch of life. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising a message or a letter will make that feeling go away.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• A feeling of emptiness, sadness or being left behind that lasts for weeks and does not ease with time
• You begin avoiding even the people who still message you
• Eating, sleeping or your daily work have started to come apart too
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Seeing a professional does not mean you are weak, just as seeing a dentist for a toothache does not mean you cannot look after yourself.

This article was created with AI assistance.