By Ruby Faith Hentoff

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He was like home to me. I wasn’t ready to let him go.

Sixty minutes till home.

The sky is black as onyx, hazy sprinkles of stars carelessly strewn across the galaxy.  Withering trees surround the asphalt concrete I’m slowly rattling across, their branches bending over to brush against my window. In the distance, mountains encompass endless open fields, sorted into choppy layers and separated by sheets of mist. I can hear the twigs and stones crunching under the tires, making me bounce in my seat unnervingly. I didn’t know this would be the night that it ended.

I turn to look at my friend. He’s mostly veiled in darkness, but every few seconds, road lights will illuminate fragments of his face. His pale, freckled cheeks are pressed against the window, breath leaving circles of fog on the glass. He gazes out at the landscape wistfully, hazelnut irises worn with defeat. A glowing silver crescent reflects in his frameless glasses. I open my mouth, racking my mind for a conversation starter, but nothing comes out.

He glances back at me. Shifting his head ever-so-slightly, he manages to crack a thin smile. Seconds later, his shoulder is facing me once again.

Fifty minutes till home.

A chill slithers through my bones. We’ve hardly spoken since embarking on our second Odyssey of the Mind tournament. When his parents offered to take me home with them, I got excited for a moment, thinking that three hours in a dark car would incentivize him to finally speak to me again. And yet, it is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. 

Then again, I’m not sure what I was expecting.

The air is thick, almost as if we’ve been submerged and talking would fill my lungs with dirty saltwater. Nevertheless, I want to say something, to say anything that reminds him of the six years we’ve been best friends for. All the holiday trips we relished; all the chess tournaments we went to; all the arguments we resolved. The time we went seaglass-picking in St. Barths; the time we filmed an iMovie trailer set in the Himalayas; the time I stood by him as he severed a toxic friendship. What does any of that mean to him? 

As we continue to wind through the shadowy night, I reflect on the value of our memories; how much his presence has been a shining beacon of light in my life. I assumed he felt somewhat similarly. For the longest time, I did view him as “the brother I never had.” But it seems that he’s beginning to move on; he’s ready to try something new. Someone new. Someone with the key to a complex social pyramid, power that an outsider like me could never wield. 

I don’t remember when it all started. I suppose I don’t notice the storm approaching until the friction of lightning sweeps across my skin.

Thirty minutes.

The silence is unusual. In the past, our time had been nothing short of fervent chatter and roaring laughter. I remember the days when he’d find me in the cafeteria, flexing about the lemon he’d sucked dry or the LEGO creation he’d just slapped together. Now, I receive nothing more than a dismissive glance in the afternoons.

His back is almost fully turned to me now. I dig my bitten fingernails into the seat. I wish I’d never come on this trip.

In the front seats, his parents are chatting amicably. They don’t know that he’s stopped giving me his time and stopped listening to what I had to say. They don’t know that he gave up his dream of becoming a “popular kid” and spent copious amounts of time alone. Or maybe they did. Not that he ever told them any of his personal information. In elementary school, he’d only share that with me. And I’d talk to him; I’d be reassuring and amusing and do anything to put a smile on his face. There was something unique, something special about our dynamic. We didn’t even have to try. We could just be, and that was enough for me.

I thought I was enough for you, I almost say, but manage to bite my tongue. 

Twenty minutes.

He’s still staring out the window. My throat turns dry. A battered sign reading “284th street” whizzes by, and I’ve never been so relieved to be re-entering the city. 

He’s staring, and staring, and staring. My blood runs cold.

Ten minutes.

Say something! the voice in my head desperately screams. One word, anything to convince me that we’re still us. That I still have you.

But the stars have disappeared, and his gaze remains fixed on the onyx sky. His silence is like acid; stinging my skin, eating away at my flesh. A lump forms in my stomach, and my urge to leave the car is more extreme than ever. I have to escape the silence. To bandage myself before I start bleeding.

Five minutes till home.

I can see the storm, but it’s too late. The friction has passed, and the lightning strikes.

Process

Last summer, I went to a three-week writing workshop at Simon’s Rock, where the loud, bustling city was replaced by the gentle rustling of willow trees. With my new friends and I sharing our own literary galaxies, Simon’s Rock was an experience to remember. One morning, we were asked to write about a “specific moment,” one we remember so vividly it almost feels like yesterday. Since it was a timed activity, I only wrote a few paragraphs at first, but that afternoon, I completed my story about the one night I will never forget.

I believe that friendship is one of the most underrated topics in literature. In many stories, friendship serves as a subplot or side detail. To me, it is beautiful yet painful, thrilling yet exhausting, hard to establish and even harder to leave. It is a journey with endless possibilities and unexpected twists. For this story, I reached to the bottom of my heart and threw every one of my fickle, delusional emotions onto the page. I wanted to craft something original but highly relatable. We’ve all had “that one friend.”