By Elena Schneider

I was standing in the security line at Reagan National Airport when I saw my ex-boyfriend for the first time in more than a year. He’d moved to D.C. recently, but despite an early attempt to meet up, he’d remained a ghost for months. It took a long time, but despite our shared zip code, I’d started to find my footing again.

But then I saw him. And I ducked. (Mature, I know.) Under my convenient sweep of hair, I texted two of my best friends, Laurie and Meghan. SAW HIM, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. Even in this long-distance friendship, where we often struggle to stay in touch, they were magically both there to panic alongside me. It was a long security line, me at the beginning and him at the end. I thought, OK, I don’t think he saw me. We can get through this and not talk. Cool.

But as I sat at Gate 35X, I stared at my phone with a text from an unknown (but oh so known) number saying he’d seen me passing by and how he just wanted to say, “hi” — a text shrouded in the obligatory “haha,” because can’t you tell how casual I am? (Granted, he was more of a grown-up than I was by acknowledging it, so Maturity Round One: He wins.)

Typing and deleting — I cycled through all the iterations of cosmic meaning that put us in a place of arrivals and departures at Christmas time, wondering frantically: What is this supposed to mean? Does it mean anything at all?

Before responding, I asked Laurie and Meghan what I should do. I’m the youngest of three girls, so I’ve been asking women what to do my entire life, and I believe deeply that three heads are better than one.

“You spend four years building your little castle in the sky, populated by friends who make you laugh until you cry, who challenge your perceptions, who hold your hair back as you vomit — every once in awhile, all at the same time — and then, one day, that castle’s gone.”

But rather than support my not-so-passively aggressive text that would ask for answers from him I’d been dying to hear, they said absolutely not. Don’t respond, they said: This isn’t a sign. You shouldn’t talk to him. This doesn’t mean anything. Get on your plane, and go home.

Rage ripped through me as I read blurring blue messages from my long-distance friends. Finally, here was an opening to ask questions that went so long unanswered after this relationship stuttered to an end.

Fury flickered brighter and brighter. They don’t know me anymore. They don’t know how I’ve been feeling. We don’t even talk to each other. They don’t know me anymore.

☐ ☐ ☐

Growing up, I lived in a small, conservative college town in North Carolina, and I knew I hadn’t found my tribe yet. Sure, I had nice friends who are lovely people. But beyond the convenience of high school, I knew, at my core, I didn’t belong there. I was not going to stay there.

Then, [trumpets] I went to college. And the rest of this paragraph will read much like a love letter because, to be honest, I fell in love. My friends and I, we assembled a league of extraordinary women who delighted in each other in every way. But that same group also knew when to grab you by the shoulders and ask, “What the fuck are you thinking?” And you probably deserved it.

In my bones, I knew, “Here they are. Here’s my tribe.”

But then, we graduated. Which, yeah, happens to everyone. But we’re also young and human, so we thought we felt graduation the most deeply. You spend four years building your little castle in the sky, populated by friends who make you laugh until you cry, who challenge your perceptions, who hold your hair back as you vomit — every once in awhile, all at the same time — and then, one day, that castle’s gone. You’ve all fallen face first on hard concrete, and when you get up, you’re not together anymore.

One of my most insightful friends put it this way, glancing down a long table of us, sitting in the June Chicago sunshine just before graduation: “I don’t want to make new friends. No new friends.” Sure, it was a joke, but that joke cradled a whole lot of truth in it.

☐ ☐ ☐

That refrain we chant to the people who no longer shape the everyday contours of our life: Things never change between us. We see each other and it’s like no time has passed. We’ll make the distance work.

I say it, too. I say it all the time. I’ve scattered my best friends like crumbs across this country, making trips to their new homes a thrill. But it’s a poor trade-off for what we once had. A trip to India, where one friend lives, might be cool, but then how do you save for the plane ticket? What about vacation days? Walking down the hall felt much easier.

Then again, this is adulthood, right? We grow up, out and on. We chase careers across the world, and why wouldn’t we? Passion is what brought us together in the first place.

“Friends can and do fade, disappear. Sometime it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s not. Keeping your tribe together takes hard, intentional work, and we’ve, luckily, each chosen to fight for it.”

Our friendship looks a little different these days. Weekend trips. Long, unplanned phone calls. Awkward FaceTimes on public transportation. Hurried, sometimes empty, texting conversations. Likes on Instagram and Facebook.

On a weekend last June, Meghan, Laurie, and another friend, Jacqueline, and I went to a country concert (country, we know). We sat on blankets in the fading summer light, splitting cheap beer with arms hanging loosely around each other’s waists. Meg and I posed for a million pictures before we found a social media-worthy one. We renewed each other, finding, again, the depths to which we fulfill each other by simply being there.

There are a million ways to stay in touch these days, but without that essential there-ness, communing in each other’s daily minutiae, do we still know each other in the same way? How do we find each other again?

☐ ☐ ☐

Back at the airport, my fingers drummed at the edges of my iPhone. Tears stung the corners of my eyes as Laurie and Meghan continued to send a stream of texts that poked holes in my anger and irrationality.

Laurie lives in Waco, Texas, and Meghan lives in Chicago, but they know me. Because even as I text-yell at them, they don’t bend, they don’t disappear. They know, sometimes better than I do, who I am and what I need.

I swiped left and the texts from my ex were gone, without a response. Kid Cudi reminds us, “Memories, they soon delete.” He’d be more accurate, though, if he’d added, “…if we choose to delete them.” (Mr. Cudi, please forgive my rhythmically poor edit.)

Friends can and do fade, disappear. Sometime it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s not. Keeping your tribe together takes hard, intentional work, and we’ve, luckily, each chosen to fight for it.

When I landed in North Carolina, I planned to call Laurie and Meghan to thank them. But dinner had already started by the time I got home, so I forgot. I think they’ll forgive me.

Elena Schneider writes for Politico and lives in Washington, D.C.

By Marc Drake

I had a professor in college that would always say, “If college is the best four years of your life, then you should kill yourself the day after graduation.” It was a crude and exaggerated joke, but the sentiment was clear: Life goes on after college. Life should get better.

During school, I took this as a given. I enjoyed the opportunities and benefits my university offered, ranging from writing for the student newspaper to attending soccer matches while studying abroad in London. I was truly grateful to be in my position, and I acknowledged these experiences would mark a special time in my life.

However, during most of my undergraduate experience, I operated under the assumption that my best days were ahead of me. Everything I had accomplished up to that point was just a precursor to great things to come, and I was determined not to regard my college years as the “glory days.”

Three months out of school, however, I wasn’t quite so sure about this anymore. I had elected to take a gap year before medical school to get some more clinical experience, earn a little extra money, and most importantly, to take a break before I jumped into the next few years of intense studying. I started my first “real” job in Chicago and decided to live with my parents in the suburbs (“You’ll save so much money this way!” my mother had insisted). But a few months in, I realized I was profoundly lonely. Lonelier than I had ever been, in fact.

“During college, I had always romanticized the idea of loneliness — it was the catalyst for great art, music and new ideas, I thought. But by the time I began realizing the value of others’ company, it seemed as if everyone who really mattered was gone.”

Everyone who I had grown up with had left home. I felt estranged from my coworkers, who were living in Chicago and seemed to have booming social lives. My friends from college all seemed to be off earning impressive salaries in impressive cities while my experimental year was proving to be a bust.

During college, I had always romanticized the idea of loneliness — it was the catalyst for great art, music and new ideas, I thought. But by the time I began realizing the value of others’ company, it seemed as if everyone who really mattered was gone.

Despite the paucity of social support I felt I was receiving from my peers, I had two important things to help me during my difficult days: a loving family and a supportive significant other. Their care left me in better shape than swathes of the population. So why did I feel so down all the time?

While my friends wrestled through the dating world, I was in a committed long-term relationship — I was doing something right. We had seemed to master the distance thing in the past, so we weren’t worried about that aspect too much. We would still see each other regularly, and I had anticipated that this year was going to be a great one for both of us: I would gain experience in healthcare and be able to attend the medical school of my choosing, while she would continue grad school, thriving as she always had. But she continued to succeed, as expected, while I struggled to adjust to the disappointment of the year.

Work was not what I expected it would be. My advertised responsibilities were incredibly different than those I was expected to complete, and I did not get along with my coworkers. I soon learned that the medical school application process was filled with rejection. As the months went on, I noticed conversations with my girlfriend were becoming more and more strained; she obviously was growing tired of hearing how terrible traffic was every morning, about the prejudices of my coworkers, and how I missed my friends. I was surprised by how our conversations left me feeling: angry, impatient, fatigued. I realized I was beginning to resent her for all of the fun she was having, all the great things that she was doing.

“My professor spoke of the dangers of hindsight. But in my gap year, I learned the dangers of focusing exclusively on the future. With my constant comparisons and anticipation of things to come, I realized that I was looking for happiness in my accomplishments. ”

After five years of dating, she truly felt like an extension of myself, and up until then, I had no trouble celebrating each of her successes as my own. Now I felt as if I had exhausted all of my empathy. She was thriving in her situation; I was drowning in mine. Hearing her speak about how she attended another conference, went to another party, and how all the students she was teaching loved her made me feel as if my life was wasting away. I wanted to share in her success, not live vicariously through her. Maybe my best days were in college, I began to think. Despite her efforts to make time for me and provide support, I had trouble feeling adequate. She was doing everything right, both within the relationship and out, and that was exactly the problem.

I assumed that when I got into medical school, I’d feel better about my situation. It would make these miserable feelings worth something — a justification for the poor gamble I had taken. To my excitement, the acceptances eventually began to trickle in. But as the initial thrill wore off, I noticed I was still struggling with the same negative emotions.

My professor spoke of the dangers of hindsight. But in my gap year, I learned the dangers of focusing exclusively on the future. With my constant comparisons and anticipation of things to come, I realized that I was looking for happiness in my accomplishments.

I’ve had to shake the idea that the perfect resume is what will make me happy. Instead, I’m trying my best to embrace my hobbies and the people around me. Though it has been a persistent challenge, I’ve slowly learned the joys of living in the present.

Marc Drake is a medical research assistant living in (a suburb of) Chicago.

THE TRIBE

“You spend four years building your little castle in the sky, populated by friends who make you laugh until you cry, who challenge your perceptions, who hold your hair back as you vomit — every once in awhile, all at the same time — and then, one day, that castle’s gone.”

“Friends can and do fade, disappear. Sometime it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s not. Keeping your tribe together takes hard, intentional work, and we’ve, luckily, each chosen to fight for it.”

IN THE MIDDLE

“During college, I had always romanticized the idea of loneliness — it was the catalyst for great art, music and new ideas, I thought. But by the time I began realizing the value of others’ company, it seemed as if everyone who really mattered was gone.”

“My professor spoke of the dangers of hindsight. But in my gap year, I learned the dangers of focusing exclusively on the future. With my constant comparisons and anticipation of things to come, I realized that I was looking for happiness in my accomplishments. ”