When you make a promise at 30, you think you’ll keep it—30 feels close to forever. You assume time will stay gentle, faces familiar, friendships unbreakable.
But time doesn’t rush in; it slips away quietly until everything changes without permission.
On Christmas at noon, I stood outside May’s Diner, waiting for a pact we made 30 years ago—to meet again here. Ted arrived first. We talked, nervous about Rick, who we hadn’t seen in decades.
We remembered that night three decades earlier: cold, loud music, a drunken vow to meet again at this diner, same date, same time.
At 12:24 the door opened—but it wasn’t Rick. A woman named Jennifer stepped in. She told us Rick had died three weeks ago of a heart attack in Portugal. He’d asked her, his therapist‑turned‑partner, to come if he couldn’t.
Inside, she shared what Rick never said to us: how he often felt on the outside of our friendship, unseen. She showed us a photo and stories we’d forgotten, and finally gave us a letter from Rick.
In it, he said he carried us with him, that we were the best part of his youth, even when he didn’t feel he belonged. He loved us both.
Later, we drove to his old home and listened to his voice on a cassette—his playlist of our songs. He reminded us not to turn this into regret, but into memory.
“He was always late,” Ted said.
“But he still came,” I replied.