The Exchange.

You know, I’ve been thinking about my old friend again. It's been a long time. He was such a good guy. Not perfect, not polished, but real. He was wild, yeah. He liked to drink, and he ate too much. Loud. Laughing all the time. Always cracking jokes. One of those people who could walk into a room and change the whole mood. He was full of life, and I loved him for that.

He actually helped me once when I was in a real mess. I was trying to get away from someone who was doing me wrong, and he came through for me. He stepped in. Tried to get me help. That’s not something you forget. He had his flaws, but in that moment, he was like a shield. That’s the kind of person he was, when he was himself.

We were friends. Real friends. We'd hang out, laugh, get into trouble sometimes, but nothing too bad. He had this big heart, even when he was being reckless. And yeah, he drank too much and made dumb decisions, but he was always him. Honest. Raw. Wild, but good.

But then something changed. At first I thought he was just going through a phase. He went to this party and told me later he took ecstasy. I was surprised, but I didn’t judge. Everyone experiments. But then he said he met this woman there. She went home with him. I didn’t think much of it, but he started talking about weird stuff. Said she taught him how to do something called astral projection. I didn’t even know what that meant.

He said it was like leaving your body, like your soul just floats up and goes places. And I thought, alright, maybe he’s still high. But he was serious. Said they did it a few times together. Floating around, going places I couldn’t see. Then one night, she told him she didn’t want to go back into her body. Said they should switch. He thought it was some trippy sex game or something. But she was dead serious.

They switched. She took his body. Just slipped into it. And he ended up in hers.

He didn’t know her body was sick. She had all kinds of things going on. Drugs in her system, heart problems probably. And on the way back home, her body—his soul inside it—collapsed. Heart attack. Cocaine. Ecstasy. Whatever else was in her blood. He died, right there, by some bin on the side of the road. Just like that. Gone.

And nobody knew. We all thought it was her. Because it looked like her. So we cried, we held the funeral, we laid her to rest. But it wasn’t her in there. It was him. And I didn’t even know.

And I sang at her funeral.

I stood up there, voice trembling, thinking I was saying goodbye to her. But it was him I was singing to. I was singing over my friend’s body without even knowing it. That makes my chest ache. Like I betrayed him without meaning to. Like he heard me, and I didn’t even know he was asking for help.

After that, everything changed. He—or she now, I guess—started acting weird. I mean, completely different. This wasn’t a “he changed a little” situation. This was like night and day. He started wearing lipstick. Tight clothes. Called himself a new name. Said he was transgender now. And again, that part didn’t shock me—people live how they want. But what shocked me was how mean he became. He used to have so much heart. Suddenly he was cold. Harsh. Twisting scripture. Arguing about freedom in a way that felt wrong. Like he was trying to make the truth mean whatever he wanted it to.

And then one night, I didn’t have a place to stay. I asked if I could crash at his place. He had a spare room. He made me sleep in his car. I was cold. I was scared. I cried quietly because I didn’t want him to hear me. And I remember thinking, he would have never done this before. My friend—the real one—he would’ve made me tea, joked about how I snore, given me a blanket and probably fed me way too much. But this person? They looked like him. Sounded like him. But the love was gone.

After that, I let the friendship go. I didn’t say goodbye or make a scene. I just walked away.

Years passed. I built a life. I got my own place. I don’t have to beg anyone for a place to sleep anymore. I have blankets. Food in the fridge. Peace. But I never forgot him. The real him.

Then, one morning, I was praying. I was just talking to God like I do sometimes. And this little bird came to my window. I don’t know if it was real or just a spirit thing, but I felt something. Deep in my chest. A whisper, clear as day.

He’s not there anymore.

And that’s when I knew. Knew that everything he told me was true. The woman. The projection. The switch. The overdose. The funeral. He had died in her body, and she had kept on going in his.

I cried again. Years later, and I still cried. Because I hadn’t really said goodbye. I’d said goodbye to a stranger wearing his skin. But not to him.

I’ve forgiven him. I really have. Even for that night in the car. Because I know it wasn’t him. And I’ve even tried to forgive her. I don’t know what kind of pain she was running from, but it must have been deep for her to steal someone else’s life. I hope God has mercy on both of them.

But sometimes, I still wonder. Where is he now? His soul. Did he go to heaven? Is he stuck somewhere, waiting for someone to remember who he really was?

And is she still out there, walking around in his body, wearing his name?

I don’t know.

But I lit a candle for him the other day. I said a little prayer. Just in case his soul is still wandering, looking for someone who knows the truth.

And I do.

I remember him. The wild one. The loud one. The friend who saved me when no one else did.

Wherever he is, I hope he’s finally at peace.