Death Of A Friend And Another

When it comes to friendships, the word "best" should never be confined to just one person. The rules of grammar should change—because in life, we have best friends for different seasons, each leaving a mark that time cannot erase.

One of my best friends was a guy from high school. We were inseparable. The school tried to break us apart by placing us in different sections, but their efforts were in vain. We were stubborn and determined to stick together no matter what.

For years, I never understood why the school wanted to separate us. It was only when I studied teaching in college that I found my answer. Perhaps they thought our bond was too exclusive, too intense. But we weren’t shutting out the world. We had other good friends. He had his circle; I had mine. We shared common friends. We weren’t living in our own universe—we were just closer than brothers.

Then came graduation, and life did what the school never could. We were separated. I pursued college; he did not. I had to work two jobs to survive, juggling school and employment just to keep going. Our meetings became rare, and our updates even rarer. I could barely go home twice a year, and we didn’t live in the same neighborhood. There were no cell phones, and no easy way to keep in touch. And so, without wanting to, we lost each other.

Years passed, and I heard news about him. He had married—ironically, to one of our closest friends from high school. She had always been like a sister to him back then, both of them dating other people, never showing a hint of romance. But life has its twists, and they have found their way to each other. I was genuinely happy for them. At least they knew each other well.

Through old classmates, I got his contact number. By chance, one of my trips passed by the town where they lived, and we met at the bus terminal. Our reunion was brief—too brief. We barely had time to talk before the bus was ready to leave. But I remember the smile on his face, the warmth in his voice. He told me about their small business, and how things were going well. I was relieved to know he was doing fine.

We started exchanging text messages, making vague plans to meet again. We talked about business ideas—I had resources, he had ideas, and we both thought something good could come out of it. There was excitement, hope, a future waiting to unfold.

Then, one night, a phone call shattered it all.

I woke up to the sound of a crying woman on the other end of the line. At first, I didn’t recognize her voice. Then, through her sobs, she managed to say the words that stopped my world: He’s gone.

Dengue. He died of dengue.

I had never heard of an adult dying of dengue before. And yet, my best friend was gone. Just like that.

I refused to believe it. I lied to myself. I told myself it wasn’t true, so many times that I started to believe my own denial. When the invitation for his funeral came, I ignored it. I was expected to be there. I was wanted there. But I didn’t go.

And because of that, I lost her too—his wife, our dear friend. My absence was unforgivable. I never explained, and she never asked. But from that day on, the silence between us was as permanent as his absence.

Regret is a heavy thing to carry. It clings to you, whispering in the quiet moments, reminding you of the things you can never undo. I should have been there. I should have said goodbye. I should have honored our friendship one last time.

But I didn’t.

And now, all I have left are memories, and the ache of knowing that some things, once lost, can never be reclaimed.