The Best Friend I Don’t Have

This one’s hard to write.
Because I don’t have a best friend.

I’ve got a small circle of people I genuinely enjoy being around. When I get to interact with them, it’s great. When I don’t, it sucks. But life moves, and I move with it.

Still… when I reflect on my past, I realize something: I thought I built stronger bonds than I actually did.

I’ve never been invited to a sporting event.
I’ve not gotten the “Want to game?” message in forever.
I log on and see people I care about playing with others. I scroll and see them at events with their “best friends.”

And I’m not one of them.

Since becoming a father, a husband, and a provider—people dropped away. One by one. Until just a few stayed. The small circle that’s left means a lot, but the space where deeper connection should be? It’s isolating.

The hardest part?
Sometimes, in conversations with people I consider close—people I thought might hold that best friend title—they’ll casually refer to their best friend. And I realize… that’s the person getting the invites. That’s the person who gets the calls when life hits.

Even when I send a clear message that I’m struggling—blatant, unhidden—it gets left on read. Passed over. Seen and ignored.

And yeah, people will say, “Well, your wife is your best friend.”
But no—she’s my wife and my partner. That’s not the same. She has her own lifelong best friend she can spill everything to, the kind of safe space time and experience builds. That’s what “best friend” means to me. That Cory-and-Shawn, ride-or-die, grow-through-life-together kind of bond.

Looking back, I had “timer” besties—the kind that are there when the party’s going, when the drinks and chaos are flowing. But when I stepped away from that life, those relationships faded. And the ones I tried to build after? They didn’t hold.

Maybe it’s been since high school that I had a real best friend. And for the record—if they ever read this—they know who they are. (“Look, Clifford!” still makes me laugh.) They hold the high school best friend title forever.

Since then, it’s been chapter friends.
Some show up for one scene.
Some return for a few arcs.
Some are low-maintenance and only pop in occasionally.
Some are lead characters for a while, then vanish.
Some leave and later come back.

But the last six years?
I’ve been writing chapter after chapter as the solo lead of my own story. Coping. Surviving. Carrying the weight. Filling the silence. And the truth is, I’ve carried it alone for so long it’s probably too much for anyone to step into now.

It’s not bitterness—it’s just the reality I’ve learned. A lesson I didn’t want, but one that’s been drilled into me over and over.

So yeah… this has been on my mind for a long time.
And now it’s finally on paper.