When We Were Friends: A Story of Lost Friendship

When We Were Friends

It was early summer 2005 when our 6th-grade elementary homeroom teacher handed out our final report cards. In a few weeks, I would begin my journey as a first-year high school student. I looked for my friend Jovie and called out to her. It was time to go home. I gathered my things and headed out to the door where my friend Jovie was waiting for me. It was past 4 in the afternoon, and as we walked home, Jovie asked me, "So, it's BNHS for you right?" She was referring to the national high school I would be attending next June. I nodded and replied, "Yep, it's been set since last year. How about you? You're off to BMS, right?" 

 

I glanced at her, waiting for her response. She turned toward me, her face shining with excitement. "Absolutely! BMS is the place to be! All my brothers and cousins went there, and pretty much everyone in our village did too." 

 

She was visibly thrilled. I adjusted the shoulder strap of my backpack, trying to ease the weight of the books and notebooks inside. At that moment, I thought about how nice it must be to attend a school where you know so many people. However, I kept that thought to myself; I didn't want anyone to know that I was actually scared about going to a new and unfamiliar place where I didn't know anyone. 

It was the first week of June, and the sun was still hidden beneath the horizon when I was jolted awake by a series of loud, urgent bangs echoing from downstairs. It was my dad, determined to rouse me for my first day of high school. As I blinked away the remnants of sleep and stepped out of my room, my gaze was drawn to the large round clock that hung prominently on the wall of our living room. The hands pointed to 5:30 in the morning, and I couldn’t help but feel that it was awfully early for a 12-year-old to be stirring. 

Despite the temptation to crawl back into the comfort of my blankets, I knew I had to shake off the drowsiness. The trip to my new school would take about 30 minutes by local tricycle—a motorcycle adorned with a cozy sidecar—and classes were set to start at 7:30. The thought of navigating this new chapter filled me with a mix of excitement and nerves.

I was among the first to arrive at the school. The school was proudly perched on a small hill, offering a panoramic view of the town center below. As I ascended the wide, concrete stairs, I took in my surroundings, a mixture of colorful banners and the buzz of chattering students. A sense of anxiety gripped me since I barely recognized anyone in the sea of unfamiliar faces. Nearby, a man, probably the school Principal, with a warm, inviting smile stood confidently, clutching a megaphone. His voice rang out clearly, instructing the freshmen to gather on the left side of the court, creating a sense of order amid the excitement. 

An hour had slipped by, and the atmosphere was finally settled. We were seated in an expansive classroom, the result of merging two average-sized rooms to accommodate the large number of new students. I looked around and I noticed clusters of students busily chatting and laughing. I remained in my seat and was hesitant to join in because I felt like an outsider in this bustling new environment. 

 

I recognized a few faces; I had met these people at some interschool events before, like quiz bees and other academic competitions, but I didn’t know their names. Some cast quick, curious glances in my direction, perhaps wondering who I was. No one dares to take the initiative to start a conversation.

Then, a small boy sitting next to me, wearing a large oversized white t-shirt that hung loosely over his tiny frame and black pants that were far too long, trailing on the floor like a small shadow suddenly, with unwavering confidence, he looked directly at me and asked,  "You look like you’re not from around here. What school did you come from?" The boldness of his inquiry startled me and for a moment I stammered, caught off guard. I responded, "Nope. I'm from SMCS, you know the elementary with the biggest playground." Since then, Randy the small boy, became my constant companion. I just needed a day or 2 to adjust and just like what kids normally do, I was able to make friends with my other classmates. 

Randy was my seatmate, radiating an undeniable confidence that many girls found irresistibly charming. He had a natural talent for mathematics and frequently played Sci-Damath, a captivating board game that cleverly merges math and science concepts. The letters of admiration he received from girls piled up, yet he always brushed off the attention with a nonchalant air, even though the small gestures made his smile beam throughout the day. It was no surprise that he held the title of Mr. Popular.

After three months, our once-large class was split into two sections. While I remained in the same class as Randy, we no longer occupied neighboring seats. That was when I became friends with Clifford. Just like Randy, he was a petite figure, with round, dark eyes that sparkled with curiosity. He, too, had a remarkable affinity for numbers and mathematics. Despite his small stature, Clifford was quite confident. He came from a prominent family, with his aunt being one of the best science teachers at our school.

How we became friends had always puzzled me. It seemed to blossom out of the blue one day. We began to spend our afternoons together, sharing lunch and exchanging thoughts in front of the lively school canteen. Our cherished hangout was beneath the sprawling Gmelina tree beside our classroom. Sitting on the soft grass, Clifford and I would dive into conversations about the most random topics, our laughter echoing through the schoolyard as Randy diligently filled his notebooks with sketches. Our chats often danced around silly and nonsensical subjects, resulting in loud laughs that made our afternoons together wonderfully memorable.

Throughout my first year in high school, I immersed myself in a whirlwind of new experiences and friendships. It was at this point that I realized I had a natural talent for making connections. I befriended the popular girls on the volleyball team who radiated confidence and energy like no other, the smartest students in our class, whose academic intelligence I have always looked up to, the avid readers whom I mostly spent my time being whisked away into different dimensions, the loudest and funniest individuals who filled our school days with so much laughter and joy. I became part of a vibrant tapestry of personalities which greatly contributed to my high school experience.

However, about 2 months before the end of the year, my parents talked to me about transferring to another school. They explained the financial struggle of paying for my everyday transportation to school. They proposed a transfer to a newly constructed Arts and Trade high school that was conveniently located closer to our home. In the morning, I could take a ride but in the afternoon, I could just walk home. Despite feeling adamant because I have already set up my roots, and made lots of friends which is probably the most important aspect of high school, I agreed. I told my classmates about this, and they were quite sad about it. Randy and Clifford told me "We will still probably see each other in interschool competitions. You better do good." 

At the end of the school year, my world changed drastically. I was moved to another school. The transition was quite quick, it left me feeling disoriented and unable to bid farewell to my friends. My mom went to my former high school to collect my school documents, and while there, the principal expressed his sorrow about letting another student go. But he understood it was for a good reason. 

In an age before mobile phones, I found myself cut off from my old classmates.

Over the course of my three years at my new school, I only saw Randy, Clifford, and a few others during interschool events - maybe three times a year. Each brief meeting felt distant, and the bond we once shared seemed to dissolve in the face of awkwardness. We somehow felt a rush of shyness whenever we saw each other. We barely talked. By the time we graduated from our own high schools, we embarked on our own separate journeys, each stepping away into the future while memories of shared laughter and friendship lingered in the background.

Now we lead different lives, but as their former friend from high school, I occasionally follow their journeys on social media to see how far they’ve come. They have carved out successful paths through their own life choices, and as someone who used to be close to them, I can’t help but feel happiness and pride for their accomplishments.

From a different perspective, I don't see our friendship in high school as a failure just because we grew apart. Instead, I like to think of it as a narrative unfolding in its own way. Our time together felt like a vibrant chapter in the story of my life and will always hold an important place in my heart. Though our meeting was brief and our paths have taken us in different directions, the vivid memories we've created and the lessons we learned continue to resonate with me.

Postscripts:  

1. The school, originally called Barocboc National High School, was renamed Santa Marcela National High School to honor our beloved municipality. 

2. This narrative unfolds from my perspective as a 12-year-old reflecting on an event that took place over two decades ago. Given how brief the meeting was, the characters may not retain vivid memories of it.