Nine moments of being known — almost, mostly, sometimes.
The relational pack. Adult friendships maintained at distance. The text thread that's been quiet for six months and then awake for forty-eight hours. The friend who lets you change the subject. The new friend you didn't expect to make. The Tuesday text that this week, Priya sent first.
The California group chat woke up at 11pm on a Wednesday.
Joan saw a guy who looked exactly like our high school physics teacher. Sara remembered the time he made us sing the laws of motion in a round. Vanessa sent a voice memo I am saving forever. Active for forty-eight hours. Quiet again by Saturday. This is the rhythm now. We've each been to one of each other's weddings, so far. I think that's what it is. I think that's enough.
I missed Daisy's wedding last spring.
The plane ticket was a lot. The week was a lot. I had reasons that were reasons. I sent the gift early, and a card I rewrote three times. She said it was fine. We had a thirty-minute call when she got back from the honeymoon, and there was a small new thing between us—not a wound, exactly, but a thin layer. I think it's mostly gone now. I think it might be there a little, forever.
Ana and I get coffee on Saturdays.
We don't talk much. We bring books. We sit at the small café on Manhattan Avenue for two hours, reading mostly in silence. One or two things an hour — "This sentence is incredible. Are you cold? Want to switch chairs?" — then back to reading. I didn't know I could have a friendship this quiet. We don't need to fill the table.
Priya sent a four-minute voice memo at 11:42pm on a Wednesday.
The first minute: her coworker. The second: her sister. The third: a man she'd been thinking about. The fourth: just finishing the thought and saying, "okay, I love you, talk soon." I listened twice. I replied two days later with three minutes of my own. We do this now. It works. We are 28, voice-memoing each other like aunts. I think we're fine.
I made a new friend this year.
Marcus. He works in publishing and texts me book recommendations I sometimes read. We met through a mutual and got dinner once because no one else could. We have now gotten dinner eleven times. The first real new friend since college. It's a different kind of friendship—slower, more deliberate, both of us aware that we are choosing this. I had forgotten I could choose.
I went to Sloane's dinner last night.
I almost cancelled. I almost cancelled three times. I went. Seven of us at her too-long table. Candles burned to stubs. The food, excellent and chaotic. Sloane told a story I'd heard before, and I let her, because the way she tells it is the point. I stayed until 1:14am. Took the train home with my coat undone. The happiest I'd been in two months. The coat stayed undone the whole ride.
I almost texted Jake last night.
Drafted three versions of "hey it's been a while — how have you been?" Rewrote it five times. Made it shorter. Made it longer. Made it sound normal. Saved it as a draft. Didn't send it. Jake and I were close for two years and then weren't, slowly, without an event. I think about him every couple of months. The draft is still there. I might send it. I won't.
I forgot Ana's birthday by three days.
Caught it Friday night when Instagram showed me a photo. Texted her immediately — long, apologetic, slightly embarrassing. She replied: "omg jan it's fine you've been so swamped, let's get dinner next week." It is, technically, fine. I'm still thinking about it. She said it was fine in a way that was actually fine, which is worse somehow. I am going to do better. I might.
I didn't send the Tuesday text.
I always send it at 11. Today I didn't. At 11:04, my phone buzzed. Priya: checking in. you good? I read it three times. Replied: yeah. you? I am, I think, mostly okay. I am also the one who usually sends it; today I didn't, and she noticed inside four minutes. There is a thing she knows about me, and a thing I am beginning to know about myself. We don't say either of them. The text is intact. The order has changed.