A Guidebook To My Future Friends

A Guidebook to My Future Friends
I wish I had friends.
Friends who would like me even when I am dramatic,
when I am too loud for quiet rooms,
when my jokes don't land,
when I don't know the cool songs,
when the references fly over my head
and I am the only one still asking for the explanation.
I wish I had friends I could call
with tears still fresh on my face,
and somehow, before the conversation ends,
the world would feel lighter.
Friends who would tell me about their days,
their heartbreaks,
their annoying coworkers,
their impossible dreams—
until I remembered that everyone is carrying something,
and none of us are doing this alone.
I wish I had friends who would laugh at my eye rolls
and roll their eyes when I laugh.
Friends with a permanent dent beside me on the couch,
the same drinks in our hands every Friday,
the same stories told for the hundredth time,
the same rants,
the same terrible decisions
made with far too much confidence.
I wish I had friends who would embarrass themselves
just so I would not have to feel embarrassed alone,
and then laugh about it later right to my face,
as if carrying each other's awkward moments
was written into the terms and conditions of friendship.
I wish I had friends woven so naturally into my life
that loving them would feel like breathing.
Like childhood.
Like playdates stained with sand and dust and water.
Like knocking on a door and already knowing the answer would be yes.
No planning.
No rehearsing.
No wondering if I belonged.
Just showing up.
I wish I had friends I could call mine.
People who show up.
People who stay.
People who speak up for me when I forget how to speak for myself.
People who dream ridiculous dreams beside me
and promise that growing older
does not mean growing apart.
I wish I had friends my parents would love.
Friends whose names become ordinary in my house,
mentioned as casually as weather reports.
Friends who come over so often
they stop feeling like guests.
Friends who pile into cars for nowhere in particular,
with a carefully curated playlist
and windows rolled down,
screaming lyrics like we wrote the songs ourselves.
I wish for Yulu rides under sleepy streetlights.
For late-night drinks.
For ugly cries that dissolve into laughter.
For waking up with a headache,
wearing someone else's clothes,
and realizing somewhere along the way
they had started feeling like my own.
I wish for memories
that become traditions,
traditions that become habits,
habits that become a life.
And sometimes,
sitting alone today,
I can see it all.
The couch.
The playlist.
The laughter.
The drives.
The borrowed clothes.
The hangovers.
The years.
A thousand ordinary moments
stacked gently on top of one another
until they become something extraordinary.
I can see the friends I haven't met yet.
The ones who don't know they're being written about.
The ones who don't know
that somewhere,
someone is already saving them a seat on the couch.
This is a guidebook to them.
And if we ever find each other,
I hope we stay.
I hope we stay through new jobs,
new cities,
new loves,
new versions of ourselves.
I hope we stay until our stories become impossible to separate.
And I hope,
years from now,
when the playlist has changed
and the drinks are different
and the laughter is softer,
we still find our way back to one another.
As if we had been friends all along.