Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves are so much more overhyped than the reality. We draw grand pictures in our minds, filling in with boisterous color pieces that are not so true in real life. For better and for worse—there is certainly a time and a place for mental embellishment.
But ascribing to old friends a sort of assumed disinterest, that, I’ve found, rarely has a time or a place. It is fair to no one to assume there is a dark cloud hanging over the friendship, a surety that the other party is merely putting up with you. Were someone shinier to come along, they would drop you and wouldn’t think twice.
It’s cruel, in fact, to place those thoughts onto someone else. It is a disservice to the friendship; built from one’s own insecurity, sure, but a low opinion of the other party’s character, too.
It’s easy to get lost in that, to think just little of oneself enough to think everyone else is doing it, too, and to let that impression cover every interaction, every memory.
Especially when, years later, after you’ve done the internal work you (and everyone) needed to do, and you realize that layer never existed in the friendship at all. Your friends wanted to be your friend because they love you. Because they care about you. Because they enjoy your company. Nothing more, no ulterior motive. They still want to be your friend, because they love you. That love was always there, and it is yours to keep, pure and sweet.
