By Zane Okunor
Dear diary,
Today feels heavier than most, though nothing extraordinary happened to make it so. Sometimes I think that’s what hurts me the most, not the grand tragedies or explosive arguments, but the ordinary, quiet way distance sneaks into my life. It’s never loud. It doesn’t slam the door or shout. It just creeps in, slowly, until I wake up one morning and realize the people I thought I needed most are now echoes drifting further away. When I think back, I remember how friendships used to feel like home. There was always someone nearby, someone to call, someone to sit beside and talk about nothing. My phone never seemed to stop buzzing back then, late-night chats full of laughter, silly memes, and last-minute plans that turned into unforgettable nights. We thought it would always be that way. I thought it would always be that way. But life has a way of reshuffling people, like cards scattered across a table. Some fall close. Others slide away, out of reach.
One of the hardest shifts came when my closest friend moved away. She had always been the one I could count on, the one who sat with me through exams, heartbreaks, and long afternoons when the world felt too heavy. She told me she had to leave, that a new city meant better opportunities, a new job, a chance to start fresh. I smiled and told her I was proud, because I was. But inside, I felt like something in me was breaking apart. At first, we tried to hold on. We called each other almost every night, shared photos of the little details of our days, and laughed about the same things we always did. But slowly, the calls grew shorter. The replies took longer. Life in her new city demanded her attention, while my world here carried on without her. Weeks slipped into months, and before I knew it, the sound of her laugh had become a memory I replayed in my head instead of something that lived in the air around me.
That’s how distance works, I’ve realized. It doesn’t happen all at once. It’s not a dramatic goodbye. It’s a slow fading, like colors left too long in the sun, until one day you notice what used to be vibrant has gone pale. And then there are the people who never left physically, yet still drifted away. I watch as friends bury themselves in work, in relationships, in new circles that don’t include me anymore. It’s not malicious, it’s just life pulling them in directions that no longer cross mine. I try to keep up, try to wedge myself into their schedules with quick texts and suggested meetups, but it often feels like knocking on closed doors.
There was one friend I used to meet every Friday. We’d go to the same café, order the same drinks, sit at the same corner table, and talk for hours. It became a ritual, a rhythm I counted on. But then her job became demanding, and her partner took more of her time, and slowly, our Fridays disappeared. The café still stands, still serves the same coffee, still has that same corner table. Sometimes I walk past and see strangers sitting there, laughing the way we used to. I wonder if they know they’re living in someone else’s memory.
It’s not the big moments that break me, diary. It’s the small ones. Sitting on the couch with the TV on but not watching because once, it wasn’t about the show at all. It was about the warmth of a shoulder leaning into mine, the way silence felt full instead of empty. Now silence swallows me whole. Or making tea, two mugs used to be automatic. I still reach for the second one without thinking, only to remember that no one else is here. The kettle whistles, lonelier than it ever did before. Even the act of doing nothing has changed. Once, doing nothing was everything, just lying beside someone, scrolling on our phones, sharing a laugh over something silly. Now, nothing feels heavier than any task. Nothing stretches wide and hollow, a reminder that I am alone.
And yet, life doesn’t just take. Even as it creates distance, it opens unexpected doors. I’ve met strangers who left me with surprising warmth. Like the girl at the bus stop who handed me her umbrella when the rain caught us both off guard. We only talked for ten minutes, about nothing more than the weather and how unreliable buses are, but her kindness stayed with me all day. Or the class I almost skipped, where I ended up sitting beside someone who asked if I wanted to grab coffee afterward. We’re not best friends not yet, but there’s a spark there, a chance at something new.
These little encounters remind me that not every door that closes are meant to be mourned forever. Sometimes, life closes one so another can open. But I’ll admit, it’s hard to walk through new doors when I’m still standing in front of the old ones, wishing they would swing open again.
I’ve started paying attention to strangers more than I used to. Watching them helps me feel less invisible. Couples laughing, friends teasing each other, families bickering over dinner plans, it’s all so alive, so connected. Sometimes I wonder if they realize how fragile it all is, how easily silence can replace laughter. Do they know how precious those everyday moments are? Or do they take them for granted, the way I once did? Still, I’m learning. I’m learning to sit with myself, to make space for the quiet without letting it crush me. I’ve built small rituals that feel like lifelines. Cooking meals just for me and plating them beautifully, because I deserve that care even if no one else sees it. Setting the table with two plates, even though one stays empty, just to remind myself that absence doesn’t erase worth. Lighting candles at night, not for romance but for comfort. Walking without headphones, letting my thoughts breathe even when they feel messy. I’m learning that even in solitude, there can be meaning. The loneliness of faded friendships, the quiet weight of making tea for one, the ache of empty spaces, all of it has shaped me. But so have the new conversations, the unexpected doors that opened, the moments where I dared to show up for myself.
Together, these experiences remind me that I can still create comfort, still nurture a quiet kind of warmth, even when no one else is here to share it. Of course, there are nights when the loneliness presses too hard. Nights when I would give anything to rewind time, to hear the laughter of old friends filling the room again. But even in those moments, I remind myself life never truly takes without giving. What it gives may be small, may be subtle, but it’s there. A stranger’s smile. A kind word. A new opportunity is waiting around the corner.
So here I am, diary, though I’m still in between. I’m grieving the people who have drifted, even as I open myself to the ones I haven’t met yet. I’m learning to let go of the idea that distance means failure, and trying to trust that sometimes distance simply means making room for growth. I’m reminding myself that life doesn’t just take, it also gives. It opens new doors, even if they’re not the ones I expected.
There are days when the silence feels heavier than I want to admit, when I wish I could press rewind and step back into the laughter and closeness I once knew. But even in that sadness, I’ve come to realize that distance doesn’t mean emptiness; it just makes room for something different. I’ve been given opportunities I might never have noticed before: moments of growth, quiet discoveries about myself, and glimpses of strength I didn’t think I had. These lessons are their kind of gift, even if they came wrapped in loneliness.
So, “Dear diary, while this stage of my life sometimes feels uncertain, I am glad for the doors that have opened because of it. I don’t know exactly where they will lead, but I’m learning to trust the journey. Life has a way of surprising me, of offering chances just when I least expect them. And though the past will always have its place in my heart, I’m choosing to look ahead with hope, waiting to see what else life has in store for me.”