Prompt – A friendship that changed during school years.
Travis, Chris, Jeremy, Brian, Mike, Michael, Christopher, Anthony, Kyle, Ryan, Matthew, Steven, Daniel, Eric, Timothy, Joshua, Nathan, Aaron, Adam, Greg, Zachary, Thomas.
I can still name them with little effort. The order shifts sometimes, but the names remain. They belong to different places and different years, but they sit together now, flattened by time and repetition. They are not ghosts. They are proof I was taught to leave and there was never just one friendship to lose.
Growing up in the military meant learning early that friendships were temporary by design. Orders for a PCS – a Permanent Change of Station – arrived whether readiness existed or not. Houses emptied, seating charts changed, and class rosters reset. The language adults used was efficient and calm to describe all of this, which suggested they understood exactly how volatile it all was and handled it accordingly. They insisted it was temporary, while everything about it felt permanent. It was right there in the fucking name, and it never felt clean!
Goodbyes rarely hurt out loud. The grief was quieter and had to be swallowed. Tears would have been easier, but instead there were promises to write and addresses exchanged even when no one actually knew where the next place would be. The ritual carried the seriousness of a contract everyone understood would be broken, like a gym membership signed in January with full confidence and no follow-through in February. The gestures were always the same and never lasted. Over time, something quieter replaced them. I learned to pull back before the leaving began. I learned how to be present without anchoring. I learned how to be liked without being known.
School became the laboratory where this skill was sharpened. I could enter a classroom midyear and read the social map quickly. I knew where to sit, who to mirror, and how to fold myself into whatever rhythm already existed. I learned how to make friends fast because speed mattered. I also learned how not to need them and how to release them just as quickly. That felt like maturity at the time, something adults rewarded and praised. It was really anticipation, loss managed in advance.
There was always one friend who carried the weight of the others. Pick any name from the list and the story holds. Jokes were traded, lunches shared, and backstory learned. There was nothing wrong with the friendship, which turned out to be the problem. When the countdown began, I felt myself lighten. I did not resist it. I became efficient. The friendship did not end in conflict. It ended the way it had been designed to end, quietly and on schedule.
Adults praised my adaptability. Teachers admired my resilience. I absorbed those words and wore them like credentials. No one asked what the cost was, and I did not offer the answer. From the outside, social withdrawal looked like independence. Inside, it functioned as an emotional clusterfuck reset with a bleaching, a clearing of the slate so the next arrival would not hurt more than the last one had.
Years later, the pattern still surfaces in adult relationships. I must work at not keeping connections portable. I notice the impulse to prepare for departure even when no one has said goodbye. Readiness still gets confused with distance. Self-sufficiency still masquerades as safety. Awareness does not erase the habit, but it does give it a name.
Those names remain because they taught something durable. Not how to stay, but how to leave. Not how to hold, but how to let go before being asked. The system did its job well. It made me fluent in beginnings and endings with no required translation, but meaning was clearly optional.
Muddled Soma 