How to Lose a Friend

“To build a future is to depart from the nest of the past. To depart from the nest of the past is to grieve everyone who could not come with you to the now.” - Alice Sparkly Kat

It was a balmy Spring evening nipping on the heels of April. My friend Franky and I had just decided to write a script together. We spent the day walking and talking, talking and writing. We passed colorful homes sandwiched together on sprawling city blocks, taking long drags of boba tea, mimicking the head rush of a cheap cigarette outside a dilapidated bar. When she left, I decided to keep walking, energized with creative ideas. I changed into a black sports bra and track pants, a thin jacket slung over my shoulders. The sky faded to shades of black and blue. I spotted a flickering street lamp, wondering to myself how long it would take to get fixed. I noticed a girl, probably around my age, wearing an outfit I liked; her immaculate color blocking the subject of my attention. The girl next to her slowed to a stop, gawking at me. My armpits prickled, filling with a slick layer of sweat: why were these random girls staring at me? It took me at least ten long seconds to realize the stylish girl’s friend was Lacy, my ex-best friend.

Lacy and I met in high school. I was a transplant to a small midwestern town where I faced unimaginable racism compounded by the inherent perils of adolescence. As a teenage girl, having a body is hard enough; shopping for pants from H&M could be likened to an act of domestic terrorism. Lacy and I were associates before we became friends. We ran in the same circles of ambitious theater kids, nosy journalists, and wannabe New Yorkers. We bonded over the things most high schoolers enjoyed: books, music from trendy artists like Drake and Lorde, and making frequent trips to the movies.

By the time we were seniors in high school, it was the golden era of the woman led HBO original. Lena Dunham emerged with Girls, a television series documenting four white frenemies in New York, which dominated the early 2010’s. I used to watch reruns on my laptop before the advent of Insecure, an HBO show created by and starring Issa Rae. If Girls was a stinging lesson in the noxious stench of corroding female friendships, Insecure was a masterclass in its complexities. Truthfully, I didn’t know how to be a friend, let alone a long-term one. After moving eleven times to seven different states, friendship was synonymous with impermanence. Everything changed the Summer before college, when Lacy and our friends dared me to form bonds that last.

The college years were complicated and electrifying. My closest friends were long-distance and a product of my suburban adolescence. I loved them dearly, but I was ready for all things Black. I chased Black female friendships and exclusively dated Black men. I watched Insecure again and again and again. Still, Lacy was my closest friend and secret keeper. In my East Coast life, I shirked the white-centric world I was raised in. I discovered artists, writers, and art practitioners who had the language for what I went through in the Midwest. I devoured every James Baldwin book I could get my hands on, and let bell hooks teach me All About Love. The lessons from my predecessors emboldened me, eliciting an invigorating period of transformation. I transferred into film school and won a fellowship to make my first short film.

Lacy and I continued to talk every day, but years-old resentment festered between us. She felt judged and misunderstood by me about boys and dating. I felt belittled, patronized, and demeaned on an increasingly regular basis. We bickered over situationships and wielded cutting remarks spat in the heat of the moment. Eventually, Lacy came to visit, and I introduced her to my new life. It was then that the last straw cracked and crumbled. Lacy hypothesized that Molly, Issa Dee’s best friend and one of the least popular characters on Insecure, was written to show why Black women have lower than average marriage rates. She added that Molly reminded her of me.

My Black girl friends were fed up and staged an intervention, exhorting me to drop Lacy once and for all. When Lacy’s plane touched down back in our hometown, I sent her a long-winded breakup text. At the time, I felt brave and justified. I didn’t know yet that we were far from the end.

I stopped watching Insecure. I wallowed in my resentment and burnt more bridges over the next year, staining the city with my anger. I thought I could escape my past by never looking back. It followed me into my dreams, imploring me to remember. I didn’t want to remember; I wanted to feel sorry for myself and all the casual cruelties I swallowed to keep my friends.

In my solitude, I was forced to face myself clearly for the first time. Feelings are not an immovable force. I felt lonely because I chose to be alone. At any point, I could also choose to do something different. I thought about Insecure and Molly often. She was ambitious, stylish, and fiercely loyal. She could also be critical, demanding, and negative. I let my mind wander to what I’d stifled for so long, were parts of me hidden in Molly that I couldn’t see? When Lacy reached out for the first time, she sent the song Supercut by Lorde. I didn’t respond.

“Hi, I’m not sure if you will read this or not, but I feel like I need to say something, anything….” began the text Lacy sent me during our 4th year of no contact. I did read it, and cried as old wounds split open. Regardless of my past hurts, I knew I had been cold and uncompromising toward the end of our friendship. In all honesty, dealing with yourself is hard work. Forgiving yourself is even harder. Trying to quell my insecurities felt like plugging the porous surface of a sinking boat with scotch tape. I eventually replied to Lacy and wondered if this is what forgiveness feels like. Three months later, Lacy was standing in front of me, all because I decided to go for a long walk.

We tried in earnest to reconnect, but it didn’t work out. We met for coffee right before she left town; she confessed how much she thought of me, which caught me by surprise. Still, she was angrier than I expected. Later, I found latent anger of my own, nestled between my bones. I let myself finish Insecure, ready to face the Molly allegations head-on. It’s true, I saw parts of myself in Molly, and in Issa, and all the ladies of Insecure who were complex and awkward and, most importantly, trying.

For a long time, I thought healing meant making amends: offering apologies, closure, and understanding. I wish I could say that the apologies were enough, or retrospect a strong enough balm to quash regret. For me, acceptance is the only peace offering that ever stuck. Yes, I am a flawed person. Yes, I made big mistakes. Yes, I walked away because it was easier than fighting for something I wasn’t sure I wanted anymore. Yes, I loved you. Yes, I remember you. No, I’m not coming back, or at least not right now. We were kids when we were friends, and now, we’re adults. The grief leaks in when I recognize the disconcerting truth: we’ll never be those kids again.