We didn’t say goodbye, not properly at least. She just bullied my university on text, but maybe that was her way of saying, “please don’t change too fast.”
The night before college felt heavier than I expected. There were suitcases, playlists, promises, and under all that, silence. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that hums with everything you don’t want to say out loud. The way my eyes lingered a little too long on polaroids of us. The way I laughed too loudly, pretending not to feel it.
We thought friendship was immune to distance; that it could survive through states, new crushes, different campuses. We believed we were built different. Turns out, we were just built human.
Now, I scroll through our WhatsApp chat like it’s an archive with screenshots of inside jokes, blurry photos of iced coffees, the occasional “you’d love this” meme. We’re still here, just scattered. And that’s what this is about. The things I’ve learnt about friendship, and how I unlearnt half of them somewhere between growing up and growing apart.
1. Best friends are forever. (Until forever starts looking different.)
I grew up believing forever meant daily calls, matching bracelets, and finishing each other’s sentences. That’s the version of forever we’re sold: the montage version, the one where friendship means being inseparable.
But somewhere between 3 a.m. breakdowns and 3 p.m. deadlines, I realised forever isn’t about constancy. It’s about care. It’s the quiet check-ins, the random “I saw this and thought of you,” the shared silence that still feels like home. We don’t talk every day anymore, but when we do, it’s like opening a window and letting sunlight in. That’s the kind of forever that matters: not unchanging, but unwavering.
I beat myself over it a lot — not getting enough time to yap with her, missing her calls and then not being able to talk about everything when I called back, days worth of unread texts, and so much more. I felt like the worst friend EVER. But somehow, every time we did talk, it would feel like no time has passed. I don’t know if it’s her forgiveness, or is this just how adulting works, but it makes me miss her so much that it physically hurts.
Unlearning this meant forgiving myself for the distance. Because maybe forever was never meant to be a timeline, just a truth.
2. Distance ruins things. (No, it just redefines them.)
I used to treat distance like an enemy. Every kilometre between us felt like a test I was doomed to fail. From being a teenager who lived 22 minutes away but still didn’t get to see her enough; to becoming a college student who lives 22 hours away from my best friend, here’s what I learnt: distance doesn’t destroy; it reveals.
It shows you the strength of your bond and how adaptable love can be. It makes you intentional, like you can’t rely on proximity anymore, so you rely on effort. A call instead of a hangout. A letter instead of a hug. A memory instead of a moment.
And while it’s not the same, it’s still love. Just quieter. More deliberate.
Now, when we talk, I don’t complain about how little time we have. I cherish the fact that we still make time. Because if friendship can survive distance, it can survive almost anything.
3. New friends replace old ones. (They don’t. they just make the table bigger.)
When I first made new friends, I felt guilty, like every new laugh was disloyalty. But love doesn’t operate on scarcity. It multiplies.
My best friend knows the origin story — the middle school heartbreaks, the terrible haircut era, the drama I thought would ruin my life. My new friends know the person I’ve become since. Both are true versions of me, both are precious.
The truth is, friendship isn’t a competition. It’s a collection. New people don’t erase the old; they add to the story. They fill in the chapters you hadn’t lived yet.
Unlearning this meant letting myself expand — to love freely without guilt, to grow without fear of being “replaced.”
4. Growing apart doesn’t mean growing cold. (Sometimes it’s just growing differently.)
There’s something quietly devastating about realising you don’t know your best friend’s new favourite song. But there’s also something tender about knowing she’s out there, happy, even if you’re not beside her.
We’re not the same people who once laughed at every tweet and meme together, and that’s okay. That’s what growing up does; it stretches you. And part of loving someone deeply is learning how to love them from far away too.
Sometimes love is loud, like laughter echoing down museums. Sometimes it’s subtle, like liking every story, even when you’re too busy to reply. The form changes, the feeling doesn’t.
Unlearning this was bittersweet. It meant accepting that people outgrow places, versions of themselves, even you — but it doesn’t mean they stop loving you.
5. Effort is everything. (But it’s not always equal.)
There was a time when I measured love in replies. If she didn’t text back for hours, I’d spiral. If I double-texted, I’d feel needy.
But friendship isn’t a scorecard. It’s a rhythm; sometimes one person leads, sometimes the other catches up. There are seasons when she’s too swamped to call, and seasons when you’re the one disappearing into deadlines. Both are fine.
I unlearnt the idea that effort must always look the same. Sometimes it’s showing up at 3 a.m. with digital tissues. Sometimes it’s sending a meme when you don’t have words. Sometimes it’s giving space, trusting they’ll come back when they can breathe again.
Friendship thrives when you stop keeping tabs and start keeping faith.
6. People change, and so do friendships. (That’s not betrayal, it’s evolution.)
We’ve both changed. She likes F1 now. I actually enjoy mornings. We text in lowercase instead of caps lock chaos. The timeline looks different, but the bond doesn’t. I used to fear that change meant losing her. But it just means we’re becoming new versions of ourselves, versions that still wave across the distance.
Change doesn’t erase the old; it builds on it. The comfort of knowing someone who’s known every version of you is unmatched — they’ve seen your messy drafts and still root for your rewrites.
Unlearning this meant understanding that nostalgia isn’t the enemy of growth. It’s proof that something was once beautiful enough to miss.
7. It’s okay to miss the way it was. (Missing doesn’t mean wanting it back.)
Some nights, I replay old videos and laugh until I cry. Then I cry until I laugh. Missing her doesn’t mean I want to rewind. It just means it mattered. I can’t go back no matter how hard I try, but at least I can study and earn enough to see her for her birthday every year (like I haven’t been able to for the last three years).
Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s soft like the ache when you hear “your” song, the pause when you pass the café you always went to. But missing something doesn’t mean you’ve lost it. It just means it’s woven into you.
You can miss people and still love your life now. You can honour old memories without trying to resurrect them. That’s what unlearning looks like — loving what was, while living what is.
8. Friendship isn’t ownership. (It’s permission.)
It took me years to understand this one. Friendship isn’t “you owe me your time.” It’s “you deserve to grow.” It’s not control; it’s celebration.
We don’t belong to each other. We just get lucky enough to exist in each other’s timelines, and in that we find belonging.
Unlearning this meant unclenching. Letting go of resentment. Realising that if someone walks away, it’s not rejection — it’s redirection. Maybe you’ll cross paths again as softer versions of yourselves. And if not, that’s okay. Love doesn’t vanish; it just changes form.
When it comes to her, it made me realise that our lives aren’t going to stop just because we’re not together. Things, people, places, everything will happen. But, at the end of the day, she’s the one I want to give all the tea to.
9. You learn who you are by how you love.
Friendship taught me how to apologise, how to forgive, how to listen. But losing parts of it taught me who I am without the noise: how I handle silence, space, endings.
Distance has a way of holding up a mirror. I learnt I’m capable of staying gentle, even when things don’t stay the same. I learnt that friendship isn’t about finding your other half, it’s about recognising the parts of yourself someone else once helped you see.
And maybe that’s what growing up is: learning to be your own friend, too.
The long exhale.
That’s the thing about friendships like ours: they don’t end; they echo. In memes sent days apart. In playlists you both still listen to. In every version of you that still carries their laugh somewhere in your memory.
Lavnya, if you’re reading this, I miss you so very much. Thank you for holding so many different eras of me. Thank you for being the best, best friend anyone could’ve asked for. I love you, endlessly and then some. We don’t talk every day, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe real friendship doesn’t need constant proof, just quiet presence. You’re still there in the way I tell stories, in my jokes, in how I love other people a little more gently because she once loved me that way first.
Some bonds don’t fade. They just change form: from daily texts to silent prayers, from family dinners to “I hope you’re okay.” And if distance has taught me anything, it’s that the right people don’t leave; they just live elsewhere in your timeline.
Want more soft heartbreaks, late-night epiphanies, and friendship philosophies with too many commas? Find us at Her Campus at MUJ, where we write love letters to growing up and learning to let go without losing the love.
And if you’re wondering who decided to romanticise growing apart like it’s a season of Fleabag with better lighting — surprise, it’s me, Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, crying gracefully and calling it content.