My friendships aren’t dying, yet I can’t stop checking their pulses.
Sometimes this looks like texting a friend back the second they say we should hang out soon. Sometimes it looks like remembering that another friend has an exam on Wednesday and asking how it went on Wednesday night, even though we haven’t had a real conversation in three weeks. Sometimes it looks like sending another friend a TikTok at 1:53 a.m. because the girl in the video said something so specific that it could have come directly from our last conversation.
I do these things because I love my friends. I like being the person who remembers, who follows up, who turns a vague “we HAVE to do this sometime” into an actual plan.
However, between remembering someone’s coffee order and wondering when I last saw them, affection becomes something I monitor. I start looking at my friendships as if they are patients whose conditions I’m supposed to keep track of. Has it been too long? Am I doing enough? Is there something I should be noticing?
The frightening part is that this happens with almost everyone I love.
I’m especially good at looking at small details that would mean nothing to anyone else. A message that ends without a question even though I asked five, a plan that gets pushed from Friday to the next week, the realization that I was the one who started the last ten conversations. I can spend an entire day with a friend, laugh until my stomach hurts, come home with pictures from the night, and still find one “off” moment to worry about before I fall asleep.
Another part of this is struggling to draw a line between a theoretical “let’s get together” and more concrete plans. I send the link to the restaurant we talked about because I actually looked it up. If a friend mentions wanting to watch Mamma Mia! again, I might suggest making a night of it, complete with H-Mart snacks and picking out light blue, ocean-themed outfits
Occasionally, I become overwhelmingly embarrassed by how much I care. I wonder if the plans I make feel like obligations. I wonder whether my check-ins are welcome or whether people answer because they feel bad not answering and sit there thinking, “get out of my business already!” I wonder whether the friend who gets a long, excited paragraph from me understands that I’m just happy to be having a good conversation. I wonder if there’s a version of me that would be easier to have as a friend… someone who doesn’t always initiate, doesn’t remember quite so much, and doesn’t make every reunion sound like something someone should be looking forward to.
The weirdest part is that I don’t want or expect others to do exactly what I do. I know people show love differently. Some can go a month without seeing you and pick up the conversation as if no time has passed. Some love you so naturally that it would never occur to them to keep checking whether you still love them back.
Checking in doesn’t end when one friendship feels secure. That’s what makes this habit so exhausting. I can spend an afternoon with one friend and feel completely reassured, only to start worrying about another friend that evening. I can receive a sweet message from someone and feel loved for the length of the conversation, then wonder whether I have been neglecting somebody else. There is always another friendship to think about, another silence to interpret, and another person I love enough to fear losing them. It’s like working a hospital shift that never officially ends.
I wish I could say that recognizing the pattern has made it disappear. It hasn’t. I can understand why a friend hasn’t texted and still check my phone when it lights up. I can tell myself that someone is busy and still feel a small, unreasonable ache when I see that they’ve been online.
I want to send the message without rereading it. I want to suggest a plan without wondering if I am imposing. I want to have a good day with my friends and let it be a good day, instead of examining it afterward for “evidence of disease.” I know that friendships change. People graduate, move away, fall in love, get overwhelmed, find new routines, and become different versions of themselves. Sometimes people drift without either person doing anything wrong. Sometimes a friendship that once felt essential becomes a collection of photographs and inside jokes that only two people understand.
Maybe being a good friend means learning to trust that love can survive even when you aren’t actively trying to prove it.
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