The car door slams. My ten-year-old slides into the backseat, and I can hear it before I see it,that particular thickness in his breathing that means tears are coming. “I lost my last friend,” he says, and the words land heavy, final. “He said to my face he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore.”
I reach back, give him a hug. The steering wheel is warm under my other hand. I change the topic because what else can you do? Because I know what he doesn’t yet, that friends will shuffle through his life like cards being dealt and re-dealt, and this ache he’s feeling now is just the first of many paper cuts that somehow never quite scar over.
I had one of those too. A friend who broke something in me.
We were about ten, maybe eleven. Summer stretched long and boring, so we dug holes in his backyard and buried our toys like pirates hiding treasure. We drew maps. Made stupid plans. Then we spent the entire next day on our hands and knees, fingers caked with dirt under our nails, desperately trying to remember where we’d hidden them. The frustration that somehow felt good because we were in it together.
Then he chose other friends. Not dramatically. Just slowly, the way ice melts. And somewhere in that melting, I made a decision, maybe the kind you don’t even know you’re making at the time. I decided I wouldn’t bond with anyone on their terms anymore. So now I mostly watch. Sit on the sidelines while the so-called friends build things, lie about things, betray each other, love each other, and basically do life in all its messy glory.
The rules nobody writes down
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about friendship: there are rules. Hundreds of them. But they’re invisible, unspoken, and somehow everyone’s supposed to just know them. Except most do not honestly agrees on what they are.
I watched two friends nearly come to blows at a barbeque once. Beer bottles sweating in the heat, and they’re arguing about something that seems ridiculous until you realize it’s not ridiculous at all.
Mike says it’s completely fine if someone doesn’t return your call. People are busy. Life happens. You can’t expect everyone to be available all the time.
Martins face goes red. “If you can’t take thirty seconds to text me back, we’re done. That’s it. Game over.”
The fat dripped from the brisket onto the coals, hissing. Everyone got quiet. Because suddenly we all realized we were standing on different sides of an invisible line we didn’t know existed.
Who’s right? Damned if I know.
I’ve seen friendships explode over an ex being off-limits. One friend starts dating another’s ex, and suddenly years of history, that road trip where the car broke down, those late nights talking about nothing and everything, that time one of them held the other’s hair back after too much cheap booze , all of it gets torched.
“She was with him for three months two years ago,” one argues. “It’s ancient history.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the other says, jaw tight. “Some things you just don’t do.”
Wtf…
The math that never adds up
There’s this equation we all pretend doesn’t exist: How much effort am I putting in versus how much am I getting back?
You know the one. You’re the friend who always drives. Always makes the plans. Always remembers the birthday. Always sends the first message. And you tell yourself it’s fine, that you don’t mind, that real friendship isn’t about keeping score.
Except you are keeping score. The numbers are right there, when you are paying for the 20th lunch. The weight of it sits in your chest at the restaurant when you see them paying for someone else lunch.
But then there’s the friend who disappeared for six months, no calls, no texts, just radio silence and when they finally surface, it’s like no time has passed at all. You fall right back into rhythm. And you realize maybe the equation is different for everyone. Maybe some friendships are meant to be marathon runners and others are sprinters.
The friend who tells you the truth
We say we want honesty. We say we value the friend who’ll tell it like it is.
Until they do.
“That person you’re dating is wrong for you.” “You’re drinking too much.” “You’re being a terrible parent right now.” “That business idea is going to fail.”. “She is not on your level”.
The words hit like a slap. The air changes temperature. And you have to decide: Is this person overstepping, or is this what I asked for when I said I wanted a real friend?
I’ve been on both sides of this. I’ve been the friend who said the hard thing and watched the friendship never quite recover, like a bone that heals crooked. I’ve been the friend who heard the hard thing and spent months angry about it before finally, grudgingly, admitting they were right.
The taste of bad milk is bitter. But sometimes it’s necessary.
The friendship that runs on fumes
Then there’s the friend you keep because you’ve been friends forever. Since primary school. Since university. Since that first job where you bonded over hating the same manager.
But if you met them today right now, as the people you’ve both become would you choose them?
The silence after that question is deafening.
You sit across from them at lunch, fork scraping against the plate, and realize you’re going through the motions. The conversation is a script you’ve both memorized. You ask about the kids, the job, the house. They ask about yours. Nobody says anything real. Nobody risks it.
When you leave, there’s relief mixed with sadness, and you’re not sure which one wins.
The friend who grew in a different direction
This one stings in a particular way. You were aligned once, wanted the same things, laughed at the same jokes, saw the world through similar eyes. You were heading in the same direction.
Then life happened. One of you had kids and the other didn’t. One of you found religion and the other lost it. One of you got sober and the other still parties like you’re twenty-two. One of you moved countries, moved mountains, moved on.
And now when you talk, there’s this gap. You can see them across it, and they can see you, but the bridge feels shaky. You’re speaking the same language, technically, but using different dictionaries.
The hardest part? Nobody did anything wrong. There’s no villain in this story. Just two people who grew up and grew apart, and that somehow hurts worse than betrayal because there’s nothing to be angry at except time itself.
The rules they tell us
After years of watching from the sidelines, after my own buried toys and broken bonds, I still don’t have this figured out. But I’ve noticed some patterns in the dirt.
Some friends are for seasons. They’re meant to be there for a chapter, not the whole book, and that’s okay. The ending doesn’t erase the story. I wrote that line so corny but still think it.
Some friends are for distance. You can go months without talking and pick right back up. Others need constant tending like houseplants, miss a few waterings and they’re done.
Some friends can handle your truth. Others can’t. And knowing the difference is a skill that takes decades to learn and you’ll still get it wrong sometimes.
Some friends are takers. They’ll drain you dry and never notice. The trick is figuring out if they’re doing it on purpose or if they’re just drowning and you’re the nearest floating object.
And some friends rare as they are will bury toys with you in the backyard and spend the next day helping you dig them up, laughing the whole time even when you can’t find a single one.
Just enjoy the moments you share and throw away the rule book.
What I told my son (eventually)
Later that night, when the sting had worn off a bit, I sat on the edge of his bed. The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling were just starting to show.
“That friend who said he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore?” I said. “That hurt. I know it did. But here’s what I’ve learned: friendship is weird. Some people are in your life for a long time, some for a short time. Some will disappoint you. Some will surprise you. And the ones worth keeping? They’re the ones who’ll dig holes in the dirt with you even when it’s pointless.”
He looked at me with those eyes that still believe I might know something useful.
“Do the rules ever make sense?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not really. Everyone’s got different ones. You just have to figure out yours.”
“What are yours?”
I thought about it. About the friend I lost at ten. About the friends I’ve watched self-destruct and the ones who’ve shown up when it mattered and the ones who’ve ghosted and the ones who’ve stuck around despite me giving them every reason not to.
“I’m still working on it,” I told him. Which is maybe the most honest thing I’ve said about friendship in years.
So here’s where I’m curious about you: What are your friendship rules? The ones you actually live by, not the ones that sound good on paper. The dealbreakers, the must-haves, the things you’ve learned the hard way. Drop them in the comments. Let’s see if we can figure out this mess together.