Quite by accident (or perhaps not), I recently ran into an old friend whom I haven’t seen nor communicated with for a very long time. She looked the same and yet different. I wonder if she thought that about me.

Natalie and I met in high school, a decade ago. She was a senior and I was in the year below. As with the way most friendships begin, we were introduced by a mutual friend and quite quickly became inseparable. We just hit it off.

I’ll be honest and say that Natalie was neither a pretty girl nor an ugly one, but she was definitely a gorgeous person. I believe this came from the fact that although she may have been rough around the edges, her heart was in the right place. Her inner beauty was evident.

During the time that we met and became instant best friends, I was going through the difficulties of figuring out my sexuality. Natalie was there to support me, and despite her later admission of being initially disappointed in knowing I was gay – she fancied me for a boyfriend – our friendship only became closer and stronger.

Natalie was present for many of my first experiences: the first time I set foot in a gay nightclub, the time I met my first boyfriend, and the first time I had my heart broken. Similarly, I was there for her, too. I was her sounding board, friendly ear, and her non-judgemental adviser.

In many ways, our friendship was not unlike that of that other famous gay boy-straight girl duo, television’s Will and Grace. Natalie was my fag hag and I was her hag’s fag. But despite the fact that our bond seemed and sounds wonderful, therein also lay the problem. Like Will and Grace, our relationship also became dysfunctional and co-dependent.

We must have both realised this fact, as gradually, over the years, the amount of time we spent together lessened. The phone calls became infrequent and the messages even less so. Without even realising it, it’s been years since we last heard from or see one another.

Until now.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Good – and you?” she replied.

“Same.”

We stood and chatted, catching up with what’s happened in one another’s lives. It lasted ten minutes.

I was genuinely happy to see Natalie, but equally guilty for letting our friendship slide. I think I overcompensated for this by being way too tactile, touching and feeling her arm constantly. At some point in our conversation, I noticed that she had crossed her arms, and that she kept them that way.

We made some reference to both being terrible at keeping in contact, to which she jokingly quipped that I didn’t return her calls. I apologised, but the truth was that it was her who didn’t.

“Well, I need to go,” I said, noticing the time.

“Yes, me too,” she said, looking at her own watch.

“I still have the same number. I’ll text you.”

“I have the same one as well. I’ll call to catch up over dinner – or something.”

Neither of us sounded convincing, and deep down, I knew that our friendship had come to an end. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry for how things turned out, but thank you for being there, especially at the time when I needed someone. You were my saviour.”

But instead, I meekly uttered, “Okay. Well, I’ll see ya.”

I kissed her goodbye and left.

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