White Fingersocks and Quiet Goodbyes

I’ve been listening to “Frangipani” by Kaber Vasuki lately—a song that aches with the weight of grief. It speaks of losing a friend too soon, and something about the rawness in his voice made me feel like I was living his pain. But it also stirred something personal. A memory. A friend I lost along the way.

We hadn’t been in touch when it happened. Life had taken us in different directions. But the news hit me like a wave I never saw coming. And I don’t think I’ll ever truly get over it.

I still remember the first time I heard your voice. We were just kids, sitting in a strange room after writing the entrance exam for our new school. I was nervous, ready to burst out the moment we were allowed to leave. You were cracking jokes, showing off your white fingersocks to the kids around you. Somehow, you made that unfamiliar place feel less intimidating.

Later, in the orientation class—where I was the only girl—you were there again, being silly, making me feel like I wasn’t so alone. We were placed in different classes at first, but eventually ended up in the same one. You were always joking, always “disturbing the class” according to the teacher. I was quiet, so they made me sit next to you. And oh, the fun we had. You made me feel like I belonged.

Eventually, we were placed in different classes again. But you still dropped by mine, especially when I was sitting alone. I was just beginning to realize that being friends with everyone often meant belonging nowhere in particular. Your visits meant more than I ever said.

That was probably our last real interaction.

Years passed. And then came the news. When we were little, I used to imagine what you’d be like when you grew up, as you were so tall for an eighth grader. Not once did the possibility cross my mind that you would never get the chance to grow into the future I pictured for you.

Recently, I was scrolling through my old Facebook account out of boredom. And there it was—you were the last person to post on my wall for my birthday. I never saw it until now. Even when you’re not here, you still managed to make my day better.

Thank you for everything. Rest in peace, friend. You’ll always have a place in my heart.