“I loved you because you held my hair back when I was sick, and you stayed up with me when I was terrified of failing my finals, and you made me feel brave when I was nothing but scared.

I don’t care if you live in a mansion or a spare bedroom.

I have missed you every single day.” In the middle of the crowded dining room, oblivious to the clinking silverware and the curious stares of the other patrons, Diane broke down. I slid out of my side of the booth, walked around the table, and pulled her into my arms.

We held onto each other with the desperate, clinging strength of two people who had just been pulled from the wreckage of a sinking ship. She smelled different—no longer the cheap drugstore perfume of the seventies, but a soft, floral lotion—but she felt exactly the same.

We sat there for four hours that Friday. Jeannie eventually brought my black coffee, leaving a fresh pot on the table and refusing to bring us the check. We talked until our voices went hoarse, bridging a forty-two-year gap with laughter, tears, and a thousand overlapping memories.

Friendships may fade quietly, slipping away into the background noise of busy lives. But I learned that day that true bonds never actually die. They just lie dormant, waiting patiently beneath the surface, ready to be woken up by a single familiar handwriting on a cheap paper napkin.

I lost my best friend for four decades, but I got her back. And I intend to spend whatever time we have left making absolutely certain she never feels the need to hide from me again.