Cropped out of the picture
No one writes ballads about a broken heart from losing a friend, least of all when you’re both still breathing. You stop texting, and like me maybe you unfollow them on “Instagram”, but their numbers remain on your phone, never to be used again. You mindlessly tap through endless “WhatsApp” stories until you see the throwback picture of “my favourite girls” and the reason it looks so familiar is that there’s an identical one still on your Instagram page with you smiling happily as one of your “favourite girls” put her arm around you.
Being cropped out of the picture is such a first world problem, but what better way is there to show you have been effectively cut off, left behind, forgotten, erased. You swear you’ve moved on but there’s a tiny prick to your heart as you stare at the photo just a little too long. You feel that little prick when you watch from your screens as their lives go on in your absence and you feel the hypocrite because your life has gone on as well, but you haven’t forgotten them, not as they have forgotten you.
Breakups can be a slow burn, a series of disagreements and misunderstandings leading to fights, name-calling, distance, and the eventual demise of the relationship. They can also come out of the blue, blindside you, and leave you questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship. My breakup with Kiki and Abby was the latter, although considering how we met, I should have known better.
I met them at a religious meeting, four years before the unceremonious end of our friendship. They took one look at the outspoken, sociable, eighteen year old, taking on a new adventure in a new country and adopted me. In the beginning, I lived only five minutes away from Abby and a short bus ride from Kiki. We spent nights at each other’s flats so often, we left clothes over there. We had planned and spontaneous dinners, chatted non-stop on the group chat, made plans, slept in the same bed, gossiped, and traded secrets that I still keep.
Our friendship went beyond fun activities, we shared fears, hopes, worries, and wins. We were the first to know about new partners, they met the man who went on to become my husband before my mother heard his name and although dating him was against our shared faith, they welcomed him with open arms.
When life took us all away from the same geographic locations, the group chat kept us together, we planned trips so we could see each other again and I could hop on a train at the last minute because I was overwhelmed, and I needed a hug. I felt lucky to have found two older sisters who loved me, unconditionally I thought. Maybe I read a lot more into our friendship than I should have.
Over two years ago, I had a crisis of faith. I learned some new information about my religion and was done struggling with my cognitive dissonance. It was the hardest thing I had gone through at the time but that’s a story for another essay. I had close friends back home, but my entire social circle in my new country belonged to the religion I had just decided to quit, and I suffered in silence because I knew many would cut me off due to the dictates of our previously shared faith.
I should have known Abby and Kiki would shun me as well, maybe somewhere underneath my denial, I knew; maybe that’s why it took me eight months to tell two people I considered sisters something so monumental. I thought our friendship was built on love, shared interests, and similarities that went beyond the faith that put us in the same room. I thought since I would never do it to them, they would never do it to me. This was not the first time a thought like that had bitten me in the rear, and knowing me, it won’t be the last.
I knew the girls took the faith seriously but considering how close we were, I knew they weren’t on the extreme spectrum of the group. We’d all accepted an acquaintance who was a fringe member of the religious group after he came out of the closet, keeping in touch when he moved and sharing dinners when he was in town. We’d accepted romantic partners outside the religion for others including myself without judgment or censure. I thought this would play out the same, I hoped it would.
Two years ago, I could hear the blood flowing through my veins as I told them over text that I was leaving the faith; I had moved back home since then, so dinner was not a possibility. I made sure to be respectful about their beliefs and offered to answer any questions that they had, knowing we would have an awkward stretch but almost certain our friendship would survive. As I responded to the questions with “yes, dad is okay with it”, “mum is struggling but we’re getting there” I kept thinking “what about you? Are you okay with this?”. I had to be patient, I was the one dropping the bombshell, it was me who was changing, I had to wait.
I waited weeks and heard nothing back but it wouldn’t be fair to pressure them, right? So, I waited some more, still tense but beginning to accept that maybe this was the end. I left one last message in the lifeless group chat that once buzzed every other minute. I told them I would be back in the country for a month and if anyone wanted to meet up, I would like that. The lack of response was the final nail in the coffin of that group chat. I got one final personal message from Kiki, saying she loved me and wished me happiness; I wonder why I didn’t realise it was goodbye. Abby said nothing, I guess she buried me the day she heard.
I still took the trip; I was graduating from a difficult master’s programme and I was going to be seeing my partner after months apart. The girls would have celebrated with me, but I heard nothing. I got engaged and I didn’t share the news with them, it seemed my life was no longer of interest. I reached out once again when someone suffered a loss. My heart broke for her and I wanted to share some comfort. I thought the occasional condolence and congratulations would be exchanged, after all, we held no animosity towards each other, just religious constraints. Then my wedding came and went with no comment from Abby and Kiki although other religious acquaintances sending their congratulations despite my ex-communication.
We have a “hard guy” culture. If they don’t care about you, then you shouldn’t care about them. You need to pretend it doesn’t matter that two people you were close to, one whose bridal shower you joined in planning and whose wedding you watched excitedly despite the distance say nothing about you marrying the love of your life. We’re supposed to move on from ex-lovers and former friends without a second thought; you’re better off without them and they weren’t your real friends anyway. If we’re honest with ourselves, it’s rarely that easy. Despite how things turn out, the feelings were real, the time spent, the plans made, the bonds forged, all real and so is the pain. I’m not a hard guy, in fact, I’m a marshmallow; round, squishy and sweet, being cropped out of the figurative picture was not a pretty feeling.
I’ve been having a good life since I left the group, despite the community I sacrificed. I’m very close with my parents and most of my siblings. I married the most wonderful man and his family has welcomed me with open arms. I have strong friendships, much older than the ones I lost. Women that have seen me through victories, and depression, graduations, a wedding, and the death of one of my favourite people. They have laughed with me, cried with me and I know they will love me as I love them until the last one of us stops breathing.
I have nothing but gratitude for all the love in my life. I regret none of the choices I’ve made and would make them again given the chance. I celebrate my relationships that survived several weighty life changes, those I rekindled afterward, and the new ones I look forward to forming. Despite all the positivity, I am not immune to nostalgia and a small sense of loss when “google photos” decides I need to see a photo from “this day four years ago”. I still feel conflicted by big events like the birth of a beautiful baby girl, feeling genuine joy for someone that used to be a part of my life but a twinge of sadness because only a short while ago, it was a joy I could share.
I still feel the urge to be a hard guy, I feel like I’m betraying some unwritten code, maybe even myself by being honest about my feelings but why should I apologise for my humanity? I could say I wrote this to say it’s okay to miss things you’ve moved on from, it’s okay to be soft and feel hurt without losing sight of all the wonderful things in your life, maybe I wrote this because I’m still stubborn or I need to finally let go, maybe I just needed to write, and this was as good a topic as any. I don’t have a punchy conclusion to this, no profound advice, no brilliant realisations, or words of wisdom beyond the great Nigerian saying, “e be things”.
