I‘m the kind of person who remembers everything — birthdays, anniversaries, the exact date you started your new job.

Which is why it took me until I was thirty-one to realize that Lorena had never once, in twenty-three years of friendship, called to check on me.

Not once.

The realization hit me during our usual Tuesday night call. She was spiraling about Marcus again — her on-and-off boyfriend who treats her like an Uber driver with benefits. I’d heard this exact story maybe forty times. Different details, same ending. He‘d disappear for days, she’d cry, I‘d say supportive things, he’d come back with flowers, repeat.

But this time, while she was going on about how he didn‘t text her back for six hours, I found myself scrolling through our call history. Just curious.

June 15th: Her job drama. May 28th: Marcus being Marcus. May 12th: Family stuff with her mom. April 30th: Marcus again.

I kept scrolling. January. December. October of last year.

Every single call — and we’re talking three, four times a week — started with her launching into whatever was wrong with her life. No ‘how are you.’ No ‘what’s new.‘ Just straight into her crisis of the moment.

’So get this,‘ she was saying, ’he posts a story at some bar downtown and doesn‘t even tell me he’s going out.‘

Meanwhile, I’d been dealing with my dad‘s cancer diagnosis for three months. Had I mentioned it? Of course. Did she follow up? Ever ask how the appointments went? How I was sleeping?

Nope.

The math was actually stunning. In the past year alone, she’d called me eighty-seven times. I‘d called her four times — twice to check on her after she posted cryptic Instagram stories, once when I locked myself out of my apartment, once when my dad got his diagnosis.

That last call — God, that call. I remember it perfectly because it was so fucking weird. I said ’Dad has cancer‘ and there was this tiny pause, then she said ’Oh no, that‘s terrible’ in this voice you‘d use for hearing someone’s wifi was down. Then immediately: ‘Speaking of terrible, you’ll never believe what Marcus did yesterday.‘

Twenty-three years. Elementary school through college through our twenties through now. I’d been her therapist, her cheerleader, her midnight crisis hotline. I‘d driven to her apartment at 2am. I’d crafted dozens of texts telling Marcus exactly where he could shove his mixed signals. I‘d listened to her complain about the same job for four years straight.

What had she done for me? Honestly, I couldn’t think of a single thing.

‘Are you even listening?’ she said.

‘Actually, no.’ The words came out before I could stop them. ‘Lorena, I need to ask you something. When’s the last time you called to check on me?‘

Silence.

’Like, not because you needed something. Just to see how I was doing.‘

’I... what do you mean? We talk all the time.‘

’We talk about you all the time. There‘s a difference.’

I could hear her breathing change. Getting defensive.

‘That’s not... I mean, if something was wrong, you‘d tell me.’

‘Something has been wrong. My dad has cancer. I told you three months ago. Have you asked about it since?’

Another silence. Longer this time.

‘I... I thought you said it was treatable.’

‘It is treatable. That doesn’t mean it‘s not scary. That doesn’t mean I‘m not driving him to chemo every Thursday. That doesn’t mean I haven‘t been falling apart.’

‘Well, you never said you were falling apart.’

‘Because you never asked.’

That was it. The thing that couldn‘t be unsaid.

She tried to backtrack, said she was going through a lot, said she assumed I’d bring things up if I needed support. All the things people say when they realize they‘ve been caught being completely self-absorbed.

But I was done. Twenty-three years of friendship, and I’d been performing a one-woman show for an audience who‘d never once wondered if I was okay.

I hung up. Blocked her number. Deleted her from everything.

My phone’s been quieter, but honestly? It‘s the most peaceful it’s been in years.