Take the “I” Out of “Friend” and You’re Left with “Frend

Isn’t it ironic?

The word “friend” has an “I” in the middle — like a mirror hidden in plain sight, a small ego wrapped in what we like to call love.

We say, “You’re my friend.”

But what we often really mean is, “You’re here for me.”

I met Elijah in college.

A wiry guy with a loud laugh, mismatched socks, and a habit of quoting Rumi when it rained.

He’d give you his last slice of pizza even if he hadn’t eaten all day.

He remembered your grandmother’s name — and asked about her. Twice.

Me?

I was quiet. Methodical. A thinker.

Where he flowed, I calculated.

Where he drifted, I walked straight lines.

But somehow, we clicked.

Two pieces that didn’t look like they belonged — but fit anyway.

We had a tradition:

Every year, on the first Monday of September, we’d hike up Oakridge Hill before dawn.

Not for photos. Not for attention.

Just to sit.

Just to be.

One year, the sky burned more orange than usual.

He turned to me and said something I never forgot:

“The sun rises for everyone — but it always feels like it’s just for you when you’re with the right people.”

We sat there in silence, letting the warmth soak in.

Not every moment needs words.

Sometimes, the best kind of friendship is the one where silence feels like music — where you don't need to perform to feel seen.

That morning felt infinite, like a snapshot of eternity we were allowed to borrow.

But here’s the part I’m not proud of.

Elijah started changing.

He made new friends.

Started writing a poetry book.

Traveled to open mics — without me.

And suddenly, I wasn’t in his orbit anymore.

That “I” in “friend”?

It started to scream.

Why didn’t he call back?

Why didn’t he tell me about that event?

Why wasn’t I included?

Me. Me. Me.

Friendship quietly turned into expectation.

And expectation — into poison.

One day, I confronted him. Or maybe I just blamed him.

I said,

“You’ve changed. We don’t even talk anymore.”

He looked genuinely hurt.

Then he said something so simple, it broke something in me:

“Maybe you didn’t love me… maybe you just loved how I made you feel.”

That line hit harder than I expected.

We didn’t speak for almost two years after that.

It wasn’t until we met again — unexpectedly, at a mutual friend’s funeral — that we truly saw each other.

Grief has a way of stripping the “I” out of everything.

We stood beneath gray skies.

No dramatic reunion.

No long-winded apologies.

Just a nod.

A tear.

A shared memory.

Since then, we’ve rebuilt — slowly, gently.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

A true “fr(i)end” is what’s left when you remove yourself from the center.

Not someone who fills your emptiness…

But someone you show up for — with no conditions.

Friendship isn’t about how often they remember you.

It’s about how well you remember them.

Even when you’re no longer the sun in their sky.

Because love — real love — doesn’t orbit the self.

It reaches beyond it.

So maybe, just maybe…

If you take the “I” out of “friend”…

You might finally find one.

And when you do — nurture it.

Not with neediness, but with presence.

Not with possession, but with gratitude.

Because the rarest friendships are not the loudest — they’re the ones that hum gently in the background, steady as a heartbeat.

They remind you that even when people drift, they don’t always disappear.

Some bonds stretch — and still hold.

Some goodbyes are temporary.

Some stories find their second chapters… quietly.

And sometimes, the right people come back — when you’ve learned how to love without needing to be the center of it all.