I smiled when I woke up and saw our dorm roommate’s name on my phone screen. I hadn’t heard from her in years, and her message made me happy. My vision was still blurry, and the words seemed meaningless at first. Slowly, very slowly, my mind caught the last sentence: “Are you coming to the funeral?” Oh, Zita, did I have to find out this way?
I pulled out the box I’ve carried from place to place filled with memories. Photos, letters, concert tickets, a pearl bracelet. You were always stringing pearls. Throughout high school, my wrists were never without bracelets.
You were my best friend for so long. We grew up together and changed—both of us. That kind of change quietly ends many childhood friendships. But not ours. We stuck by each other, knew every flaw and fear, understood which buttons to avoid, and what the other needed to hear in tough times.
Then you started dating someone I didn’t like, and you were head over heels. Suddenly, everything felt awkward, our talks became rare, and maybe one of us said something—maybe you, maybe me—but after that, we stopped reaching out.
Sometimes I thought of you, sometimes I waited for you to write. When no message came, not even when my daughter was born, the sting dug a little deeper, and I decided maybe I wouldn’t reach out anymore.
But I never thought it would be final. Life went on, things happened, and years slipped by without a word between us. Without either of us saying, “What on earth was that?” and then just laughing it off, moving on. Now I sit here staring at my phone, realizing that moment will never come.
I’m angry with you, Zita. I wasn’t before, but now I am. I’m mad you didn’t tell me, that you knew time was running out and still kept it from me. And I’m mad at myself for thinking we had more time—probably the dumbest thing we all assume every day.
Did you think of me in those last days? Because I’ve thought of you a lot since. And guess what? Never about what we fought over. Whatever it was, it feels so small now.
I think about the day we first talked. When neither of us knew anyone, that first of September when you burst into the dorm dining hall with that unstoppable energy you always had, then hesitated. I remembered you from registration, knew we’d be classmates, and called out that there was a seat next to me.
That was it. That’s all it took for 15 years of friendship—and maybe just as few words to end it. And just one cruel suspicion to bring it all to a close.
Life goes on, things happen, and yesterday, alone in the gym locker room, something caught my eye on the floor.
It was a dragon made of pearls strung on wire—just like the little figures you always made for me. Dragons are my daughter’s favorite.
I knew you wouldn’t leave without leaving her something. Without sending one last message.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, rolling the pearls between my fingers. “I’m sorry too. We don’t need to talk about this anymore. Somewhere beyond, we’ll lie back on those bunk beds, listen to Good Charlotte, and never grow up. That’s good, isn’t it, Zita?”
