Jonathan, early career

I was always surprised my dad never kept in contact with his college buddies. He speaks about them so often and with such a fond smile that it seemed improbable such bright friendships could burn out. But social media didn't exist, phone calls cost money, ambitions were different. Those were the reasons he gave me and the ones I chose to believe.

In college I thought about my friendships a lot. Amid the drunken nights and smoke-filled rooms we professed love constantly, platonic or something more. In those moments it seemed impossible that a few years later only awkward silence would remain.

In New York I often bump into acquaintances from college or from before. Those meetings carry a strange warmth. The happiness of running into someone whose life once ran close to yours, close enough to wave at but never really touching. And then somehow when I cross paths with people whose lives I actually shared, a greeting can't even be promised.

Our college group of 11 slowly dwindled, one dramatic exit after another, until only four of us were left. Two couples. Me and my girlfriend, and our best friends. Today they broke up after six years.

I'm confused about how to feel. I won't go into the details but it's an interesting kind of loss. The two of them still exist, separately. No one has died. Our contacts can stay the same. But I'm mourning anyway. I'm mourning the loss of a dream, however slim it once was. The dream of attending each other's weddings, buying apartments next to each other like they do in sitcoms. When we used to lay out those improbable plans it never occurred to me that some part of me believed in them.

I don't mean to take attention away from my friends. Their loss is much bigger. But this is my day and I'm choosing to write about me for now.