see you again never
One of the phrases I default to after hanging out with a friend is “see you again never.”
It’s usually used in a joking way - indicating that I won’t see you for a while, whether that’s a few weeks or a few months. I say it in such a way that everyone usually laughs: I’ll shrug, throw my hands up, open my eyes artificially wide, flatten my mouth into a line, look down, and deliver it like it’s something out of a sitcom.
But recently, the line has manifested into truth. And not for the better.
A few weeks have turned into a few months have turned into a few years. Stretches of time that truly feel like I’ll see that person again…never. And, in some cases (I wish I could say ‘rare cases,’ but they’re not rare) I truly never see them again.
It’s happened in three main ways:
After a few years, nobody is the same. Especially not in this volatile period of young adulthood where every encounter yields the potential for new character arcs to form. Sometimes, I see a friend; I see them again years down the road, and they’re a completely different person. I never see “them” again. “They” no longer exist in this world.
Many of my older, male friends are reaching an age where they’re required to do their mandatory military service in various countries. For most, it’s 2-3 years, but many have plans to stay (serving the country provides an easily traced form of purpose - thoughts for another time). During those years, they’re not allowed to leave, and visitors generally aren’t allowed. (Side note: I’ve had 4 conversations this week alone where the phrase “I’ll see you next in 2026/2027” have left deep imprints on me. It feels so far away. And when life gets in the way - and when you live in different countries…that easily becomes 2028/2029.)
Death is a painfully human experience. More on this in another piece.
In moments like these, I use the line to cope. I try to bring some humour. It’s funny!
If I’ve messaged or told you “see you again never” - I don’t mean it at all. These are the thoughts running through my mind.
—
After I deliver that line and we wave goodbye, I’m paralyzed looking down, replaying things I could’ve said instead. Worrying about the very real, very possible truth behind the statement.
It isn’t so funny anymore.
I’m paralyzed, but conscious. I still feel everything. I feel the pre-emptive sinking that comes with missing someone so dearly, I feel the up and coming dwindling conversations as time passes and distance increases, I feel the fear of this exact closeness - just the way we are right now - fading, to a point where, even if we could meet up after X amount of time, we actively choose not to because neither of us feels enough pull anymore to do so. The feeling just isn’t there anymore.
If only you could bottle up a feeling of a given moment. Not even the moment itself.
Just the way you and I felt, right then and there.
This is the one that hurts the most, except it’s ironic because it stops hurting quite quickly. It’s the same process of losing touch with a childhood best friend - you cry and sob as kids because you’ll miss each other so much - maybe one of you is moving to a new city, changing schools, whatever - you beg your parents to let you stay, you try to savour every moment of their presence. Moment ends. You get upset for a few days, but then a couple weeks later, you meet new friends, you discover new groups, form new values, and before you know it, 10 years have passed. Maybe you’ll say happy birthday every year, but that’s it.
Where did all that emotion go? Physics dictates that energy cannot be created nor destroyed - shouldn’t that principle apply to feelings, too? Surely they don’t just disappear?
—
To a slightly lesser extent, the same concept applies to what I call “mid closeness” friends. These are friends you’ll talk to in a group or when you go to things like retreats, but aren’t close enough to hang out 1 on 1 with. You still think they’re interesting and want to talk to them, but know it’ll only happen with the buffer of other people there (not necessarily in the conversation itself, but in close physical proximity) or something else happening as a cover.
In these cases, it’s a different kind of painful (maybe painful is the wrong word, but I lack a better term) because it feels like one long, dragged out conversation with a series of inconvenient interruptions over the span of, well, who knows how long.
There’s great potential for this person to go from mid-closeness to close friend, if you could just sit down and have a full-on conversation with them. It’s like that one project that you’ve been putting off and hypothetically could get done if you just sat and focused for a few hours. But unless one party catalyzes and intentionally sets aside time to bridge this gap, which typically never happens, this friendship fizzles out on its own. Not that there was much to fizzle out in the first place.
Instead of going from 0 -> 1, these relationships feel like they go from 1 -> 0 in an instant. You ride the high of getting to know someone new, then the moment passes and you just don’t bring yourself to deepen that relationship.
—
All of this is to say that I have a really hard time saying goodbye. Due to certain circumstances I experienced when I was a kid, I never stuck around people for too long - people would come and go within weeks (sometimes days), and I would truly never see them again. This made me disregard the importance of friendships (which would later manifest itself into chronic loneliness in my first two years of university, also for another time) for a long period and detach quickly.
I’m much, much better now, but still have the same fear of letting people go for the last time. It doesn’t get easier, does it? In May of 2023, I watched some friends I had literally just met a week ago fly off; my plane was the last to leave, and after walking them all one by one to their gates, I went to the bathroom and sobbed for 2 hours.
When I miss someone, I don’t mean it as a “I’m thinking of you every few weeks” or “I’m thinking of you when you text me and your name lights up.”
if I miss you, it means that I’m hoping you’ll call me more or send me regular little updates of your life no matter how mundane they are. It means I hope you’ll become a series regular in my life, and vice versa, to make sure time and distance don’t break our bond.
It means sometimes, I look through our chat history and smile, old photos we took together, and replay memories we share so I don’t forget.
Just the way you and I felt, right then and there.
/jg
06/01/24
see you again never
One of the phrases I default to after hanging out with a friend is “see you again never.”
It’s usually used in a joking way - indicating that I won’t see you for a while, whether that’s a few weeks or a few months. I say it in such a way that everyone usually laughs: I’ll shrug, throw my hands up, open my eyes artificially wide, flatten my mouth into a line, look down, and deliver it like it’s something out of a sitcom.
But recently, the line has manifested into truth. And not for the better.
A few weeks have turned into a few months have turned into a few years. Stretches of time that truly feel like I’ll see that person again…never. And, in some cases (I wish I could say ‘rare cases,’ but they’re not rare) I truly never see them again.
It’s happened in three main ways:
After a few years, nobody is the same. Especially not in this volatile period of young adulthood where every encounter yields the potential for new character arcs to form. Sometimes, I see a friend; I see them again years down the road, and they’re a completely different person. I never see “them” again. “They” no longer exist in this world.
Many of my older, male friends are reaching an age where they’re required to do their mandatory military service in various countries. For most, it’s 2-3 years, but many have plans to stay (serving the country provides an easily traced form of purpose - thoughts for another time). During those years, they’re not allowed to leave, and visitors generally aren’t allowed. (Side note: I’ve had 4 conversations this week alone where the phrase “I’ll see you next in 2026/2027” have left deep imprints on me. It feels so far away. And when life gets in the way - and when you live in different countries…that easily becomes 2028/2029.)
Death is a painfully human experience. More on this in another piece.
In moments like these, I use the line to cope. I try to bring some humour. It’s funny!
If I’ve messaged or told you “see you again never” - I don’t mean it at all. These are the thoughts running through my mind.
—
After I deliver that line and we wave goodbye, I’m paralyzed looking down, replaying things I could’ve said instead. Worrying about the very real, very possible truth behind the statement.
It isn’t so funny anymore.
I’m paralyzed, but conscious. I still feel everything. I feel the pre-emptive sinking that comes with missing someone so dearly, I feel the up and coming dwindling conversations as time passes and distance increases, I feel the fear of this exact closeness - just the way we are right now - fading, to a point where, even if we could meet up after X amount of time, we actively choose not to because neither of us feels enough pull anymore to do so. The feeling just isn’t there anymore.
If only you could bottle up a feeling of a given moment. Not even the moment itself.
Just the way you and I felt, right then and there.
This is the one that hurts the most, except it’s ironic because it stops hurting quite quickly. It’s the same process of losing touch with a childhood best friend - you cry and sob as kids because you’ll miss each other so much - maybe one of you is moving to a new city, changing schools, whatever - you beg your parents to let you stay, you try to savour every moment of their presence. Moment ends. You get upset for a few days, but then a couple weeks later, you meet new friends, you discover new groups, form new values, and before you know it, 10 years have passed. Maybe you’ll say happy birthday every year, but that’s it.
Where did all that emotion go? Physics dictates that energy cannot be created nor destroyed - shouldn’t that principle apply to feelings, too? Surely they don’t just disappear?
—
To a slightly lesser extent, the same concept applies to what I call “mid closeness” friends. These are friends you’ll talk to in a group or when you go to things like retreats, but aren’t close enough to hang out 1 on 1 with. You still think they’re interesting and want to talk to them, but know it’ll only happen with the buffer of other people there (not necessarily in the conversation itself, but in close physical proximity) or something else happening as a cover.
In these cases, it’s a different kind of painful (maybe painful is the wrong word, but I lack a better term) because it feels like one long, dragged out conversation with a series of inconvenient interruptions over the span of, well, who knows how long.
There’s great potential for this person to go from mid-closeness to close friend, if you could just sit down and have a full-on conversation with them. It’s like that one project that you’ve been putting off and hypothetically could get done if you just sat and focused for a few hours. But unless one party catalyzes and intentionally sets aside time to bridge this gap, which typically never happens, this friendship fizzles out on its own. Not that there was much to fizzle out in the first place.
Instead of going from 0 -> 1, these relationships feel like they go from 1 -> 0 in an instant. You ride the high of getting to know someone new, then the moment passes and you just don’t bring yourself to deepen that relationship.
—
All of this is to say that I have a really hard time saying goodbye. Due to certain circumstances I experienced when I was a kid, I never stuck around people for too long - people would come and go within weeks (sometimes days), and I would truly never see them again. This made me disregard the importance of friendships (which would later manifest itself into chronic loneliness in my first two years of university, also for another time) for a long period and detach quickly.
I’m much, much better now, but still have the same fear of letting people go for the last time. It doesn’t get easier, does it? In May of 2023, I watched some friends I had literally just met a week ago fly off; my plane was the last to leave, and after walking them all one by one to their gates, I went to the bathroom and sobbed for 2 hours.
When I miss someone, I don’t mean it as a “I’m thinking of you every few weeks” or “I’m thinking of you when you text me and your name lights up.”
if I miss you, it means that I’m hoping you’ll call me more or send me regular little updates of your life no matter how mundane they are. It means I hope you’ll become a series regular in my life, and vice versa, to make sure time and distance don’t break our bond.
It means sometimes, I look through our chat history and smile, old photos we took together, and replay memories we share so I don’t forget.
Just the way you and I felt, right then and there.
/jg
06/01/24