the aftertaste of friendship

on reverence, distance, and the friendships that complete themselves

maybe i’m cynical, but i’ve always believed friendships naturally end for a reason. i’ve always felt that once something cracks in that particular way, no amount of nostalgia or time can glue it back to what it once was. when people talk about rekindling old friendships, i find myself squinting at the idea. i don’t understand it. there’s always a reason that friendship drifted off, some quiet accumulation of mismatched energy or unspoken tension. trying to revive it feels like replaying an old song that now has a new memory associated with it, wondering why you thought it would hit like it used to.

‘poppies’ frederick stead — a memory caught in sunlight, tender and fleeting, where friendship still breathes in the warmth of its beginning.

i notice this pattern in myself. every time i see someone i drifted away from — and i mean the ones where it wasn’t a big fallout, just that slow slide apart — something in me remembers why. not intellectually, but physically. my energy shifts. my body gets slightly defensive, like it knows before my mind catches up. that’s always the reminder: it wasn’t random. the drift was an unconscious act of preservation. my system was already trying to protect my peace before i even had the words for it. so when i see others rekindle, i get curious. how do they do it? how do they sit across from someone who once made them shrink, and feel warmth again?

i used to think maybe i was too cold for that — too unwilling to reopen doors that had already served their purpose. but maybe it’s not coldness at all. maybe it’s clarity. there’s a kind of safety in recognizing that some things are meant to fade quietly, like a song that ends mid-verse but still lingers in the air. i don’t have to ruin that memory by forcing it back into life.

then, the other day, i was in conversation with someone — a high-spirited, open-hearted person who said something that made me pause. they said they love that they can rely on their old friendships, the ones that have lasted since childhood. that it feels like home, like being known in a way that requires no performance. they said that not every conversation needs to fill you up. sometimes, it’s enough to just exist in shared history, to laugh about things only those people remember. that even if certain topics are off-limits, or depth is replaced by ease, it’s still love. it’s still joy.

a part of me melted hearing that. there was so much tenderness in their view — that love could be simple, steady, rooted in time instead of growth. it made me wonder if maybe i’d been too rigid in how i define meaningful connection. maybe there’s value in simply being seen by someone who knew you when you were smaller, messier, unfiltered. maybe that kind of continuity is its own quiet form of intimacy.

but another part of me rose up, honest and firm. i love my time alone. i’ve built something sacred there — a life that feels intentional, a rhythm that doesn’t need to be interrupted just to fill a silence. so if i’m ever to reconcile with someone from the past, i’d want that connection to equal or exceed the peace i already have. anything less would feel like regression, like reopening a door that leads to a smaller room. and that doesn’t feel cynical to me. it feels protective, like i’d be hurting myself otherwise.

sometimes i think that’s what people mistake for cynicism: when you’ve come to value your own solitude so deeply that you’re no longer scheduling for company. you’ve learned that peace is not loneliness; it’s an exhale. and when you’ve fought hard for that alignment, you become careful with who you let disturb that breath. the idea of reconnecting becomes not about nostalgia, but about reciprocity. if the connection doesn’t nurture what you’ve become, then it doesn’t belong in the life you’re living now. is this harsh?

at the same time, i can still admire the person who finds home in old faces. i can see the beauty in that. it’s a different way of loving, a different form of belonging. they find comfort in the familiar, while i find it in the stillness i’ve built inside myself. neither is wrong. both are attempts to feel anchored in a world that changes too quickly. some of us cling to the people who remind us who we were; others learn to fall in love with who we’ve become.

maybe that’s the quiet truth under all of this: love doesn’t always mean returning. sometimes, it means remaining. remaining true to your peace, your rhythm, your clarity. remaining loyal to the version of you that has learned to stay whole without needing to go back. the song still holds — you can replay it, but it will never sound quite the same, because you’re no longer the person who first heard it. some things are made to be savored once, remembered fondly, and then released.

and yet, even knowing all this, i can still soften at someone else’s tenderness. i can still listen to them talk about home and friendship and shared history and feel warmth in my chest. because what i really love is the sincerity of it — the way people can find beauty in completely different ways of being. maybe i don’t want what they have, but i can still honor it. maybe that’s my version of connection now: not trying to mirror, just witnessing and appreciating.

so no, it’s not cynicism that makes me careful. it’s reverence. reverence for what i’ve learned, what i’ve healed, and what i choose to protect. it’s the quiet understanding that love can be both nostalgic and selective, that connection can be gentle without being renewed. and it’s the peace of knowing that sometimes, the best reconciliation isn’t reaching back. it’s staying exactly where you are and letting the past rest, finally, where it belongs — and loving it for what it was.

x,
cibelle