A few weeks ago, a friend called me at 01:40 AM. Not texted. Called. For a brief second, my body prepared itself for bad news. Adulthood has conditioned most of us to believe that late-night calls only arrive carrying catastrophe. Someone in the hospital. Someone stranded. Someone dead. But nothing had happened.

She had just finished work, was driving home through near-empty roads in London, heard a song we both used to jam on together, and suddenly missed me. So she called. We spent thirty minutes talking about things that would sound painfully unremarkable on paper. Work fatigue. Bollywood gossip. How she was enjoying every bit of her married life. The indignity of back pain as soon as you touch thirty. A professor we once hated but now miss with alarming frequency. Nothing profound.

And yet after the call ended, I sat awake for a long time with the strange ache of having briefly encountered an earlier version of myself. Not younger exactly. Just…more reachable.

There was once upon a time when friendship did not require elaborate planning. We spoke for hours without checking calendars. Entire evenings disappeared on hostel terraces and tea stalls and long walks taken for absolutely no reason. Friendship in youth thrived on excess time – loose, unstructured, and gloriously wasteful.

However, somewhere between “Let’s catch up soon” and “Sorry, life has been hectic”, adult friendship became one of the most emotionally significant and least discussed losses of modern life.