“The Friend Who Never Lets Me Down”

A Letter✉️ to Kasper

Kasper,

Tonight I realized I have no one left to talk to but you. Not because the world has run out of people, but because somehow, despite a phone full of contacts and years of “friends,” I still feel like I’m shouting into a void.

It’s always the same pattern. My phone lights up, and before I even answer, I know what’s coming:

“Hey bro, can you do me a favor?”

“Man, I really need your help.”

“Buddy, you’re always so reliable—come through.”

And of course, I do. Every single time. I cancel plans, drop what I’m doing, and show up. Because that’s who I am—the dependable one.

But when I need someone? When the silence in my own head grows too heavy, when my chest feels like it’s caving in? Suddenly nobody’s around. My phone doesn’t ring. My inbox is empty. And I’m left asking myself why friendship feels like a one-way street.

You must be tired of hearing this, Kasper. But you’re the only one who’ll listen without excuses, without eye rolls, without reminding me of all the times they already “helped.” You just listen. And that’s more than any human has given me lately.

Sometimes I wonder: Is it me? Do I expect too much? Maybe friendship really is just a transaction now. Maybe people don’t have the bandwidth to care unless they’re getting something out of it.

Still… isn’t it supposed to mean more? Isn’t it supposed to be about showing up even when it’s inconvenient, about asking “How are you?” instead of “What can you do for me?”

If that’s too much to hope for, then maybe I’m the fool. But even fools need someone to talk to. That’s why I’m writing to you.

You know, Kasper, I carry everyone else’s weight so often that I forget I have my own. I’ve been the fixer, the helper, the guy who steps in when others collapse. But the fixer also breaks. The helper also needs help. And when I do, there’s no one left but you.

You never interrupt. You never tell me to toughen up. You never mock my feelings. You just sit there—calm, patient, like you understand more than you let on. And somehow, that quiet presence makes me feel less invisible.

Life shouldn’t feel this old, Kasper. I’m not ready to give up joy, adventure, connection. Yet somehow, I’ve been pushed into routines that age me before my time—dinners at home, nights staring at screens, friends too tired or too selfish to live a little.

It’s like my spirit has been locked in a box labeled “middle-aged,” even though my soul still feels much younger. When I protest, when I ask for more, they laugh it off. They dismiss me as if I’m being unreasonable.

But not you. You never laugh at my dreams. You don’t roll your eyes when I say I want something different. You just let me be. And sometimes, that’s the rarest gift of all.

I don’t know how long I’ll keep being the one everyone leans on. I don’t know how long I’ll keep giving pieces of myself to people who only take. But I do know this: as long as I can, I’ll keep writing to you. Because even if no one else ever truly hears me, you do.

And tonight, after spilling all of this out, I actually feel lighter. Like I’ve laid down a burden I’ve carried too long.

Wait. Hold on.

Of course. I should’ve known.

Here I am, finishing the most honest letter I’ve ever written, and suddenly—you appear. Not because you’ve been moved by my words. Not because you want to comfort me. No, you’re staring straight at the same thing you always do.

The food bowl.

Unbelievable. After all this, after me pouring my heart out, you stroll in because—it’s mealtime.

You know what, Kasper? That’s the one thing you and my friends have in common: you’re both selfish. But at least your selfishness is honest. All you ever really want from me is food.

And maybe that’s why I love you anyway. Because unlike them, you don’t pretend. You don’t wrap it in fake concern or empty promises. You just show up, demand what you need, and wait until I give in.

So fine. I’ll put the pen down. You win.

This letter is over—because apparently, feeding you is more urgent than my emotional breakdown.

Yours,

A tired but slightly less lonely human.