A Letter to My First True Friend

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Dear Friend,

I don’t know if you still remember me the way I remember you. Maybe life has carried you far from the days of paper airplanes, scraped knees, and shared secrets. But here I am, writing a letter to someone who helped shape the very beginning of who I became.

We met long before either of us knew what the world really was. We didn’t understand taxes or heartbreak, deadlines or disappointment. But we did know the joy of a mud puddle, the mystery of a locked attic door, and the thrill of a dare shouted across a sun-drenched field.

You weren’t just my friend. You were my world. My partner in crime. The other half of every imaginary game. While the adults were busy pretending their world was more important, we were building ours from chalk and cardboard. Remember our fort behind the garage? That old blanket smelled like mildew and dreams, and it was our castle. We ruled that kingdom until dinner called us home.

You taught me how to laugh with my whole body. You showed me how to cry without shame. And when I was too scared to jump off the swing mid-air, you went first, just to prove it could be done. That’s the kind of courage you carried—not loud or showy, but steady and real.

Somewhere between growing taller and growing up, we drifted. Not all at once. First it was different schools, then different circles, then different priorities. It happens. Everyone says so. But what they don’t tell you is how much it hurts to lose someone who knew you before the layers came on—before masks, before “I’m fine” became automatic.

I often wonder who you are now. What music do you like? Did you ever learn to draw the perfect dragon like you always tried to? Do you still laugh with your whole body? I hope so.

I saw a kid the other day running through a grocery store aisle with a toy sword. His mom was embarrassed, but all I saw was you and me battling monsters in the cereal section. That kid’s eyes held the same fire ours did—the belief that anything was possible. That heroes weren’t just on TV. They were us.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this letter. Not for closure, but for remembrance. Because some friends don’t fade, even when they vanish. Some friends live in echoes—in the smell of wet grass, in the sound of old cartoons, in the taste of a half-melted popsicle.

You were my first real friend. Not the kind I had to impress. Not the kind who liked me for what I could give. Just… me. My weird, loud, messy, curious self. And you loved that version of me in a way that helped me believe I was worth loving.

So thank you.

Thank you for sitting with me in silence when my dog died. For sneaking extra cookies into your backpack for me. For swearing that your older brother didn’t scare you even though we both knew he did. For being there, without needing a reason.

Life is busy now. It’s filled with obligations, unread emails, half-finished books, and people who smile but don’t see. And while I’ve made new friends—good ones, even—they don’t know the kid-version of me. The one who wore mismatched socks on purpose and believed in time travel. But you do. And in some quiet corner of the universe, I hope you’re remembering me, too.

Wherever you are, I hope your life is kind. I hope you’re chasing dreams that still scare you a little. And I hope—once in a while—you close your eyes and feel the sun on your face, like we used to. Back when everything made sense, and the world was just big enough for two best friends and a whole lot of imagination.

Forever grateful,
Me