Friendship changes. Not because we stop caring, but because we keep growing.
Once upon a time, friends were the people we rode bikes with until someone’s mom yelled “Maghrib!” out the window. Later, they were the ones we trauma-bonded with in toxic work environments, rolling our eyes in unison at a 10PM Whatsapp message.
Every stage of life brings a different kind of friend. And somehow, they all shaped me.
1. The Friends I Shared Street Dust and Sandal Jepit
My first friendships weren’t born in classrooms or after-school clubs. They came from the kampung—the neighbors’ kids who played in the same alley, fought over kelereng, traded Chiki balls for secrets, and knew exactly when to go home just by hearing a mom shout our names from the kitchen window.
Some of them, I only knew by nickname. “Lili,” “Gladis,” “Ade-nya-Nandang.” I don’t remember their full names now. Maybe I never knew them.
Now, every once in a while, my mom would go,
“Kak, inget sama Pita ga? Temen main kamu dulu. Sekarang anaknya udah tiga.”
And I just blink at her like a confused goldfish.
“Siapa itu,ma? Kakak ga inget.”
But I do remember the laughter. The shared plastic chairs during birthday parties. The mini riots when someone brought out a new Beyblade. The magic of belonging to a group that asked nothing of you except to show up after school with your sandal jepit on and your Es Jus money ready.
I don’t remember all their names. But I remember the rhythm of being young with them.
2. The Ones Who Lived in the Same Timeline as Me—Even if We’ve Logged Out Now
Puberty-era friendships are... fuzzy.
In secondary school, I was knee-deep in my nerd phase: acing tests, reading Majalah Bobo, and going to my classmate Anita’s house after school just to read comics before heading home. Anita was quiet, gentle, and didn’t ask much of me—which made her perfect company. I remember the comfort of her purple room with very cool nook with hundreds of books more than our conversations. I was also part of a volleyball team, apparently. I have zero recollection of how that happened.
High school was different. Somewhere between Friendster profiles and trying to pick the perfect SoundCloud playlist to describe your mood, I slowly became someone people actually liked being around.
We had inside jokes on Yahoo Messenger, vague status updates, and hours wasted on webcam convos where no one said anything meaningful. But it felt like intimacy. It felt like connection.
Outside school, I found real glue. I joined Paskibraka—an intense, military-style marching team that basically raised me. There, I made the kind of friendships that last a lifetime. Maybe because we sweat, cried, and pushed each other to the edge—but always pulled each other back.
We were all figuring out who we were. Some friendships survived that process. Others quietly expired when we stopped logging in.
3. The Friends Who Sat With Me Through Identity Crises and Bad Cafeteria Coffee
College cracked me open in the best and worst ways.
I skipped the Blackberry era (sorry BBM, you missed me) and dove straight into WhatsApp and Tumblr—where all my feelings were lowercase, and we genuinely believed melancholy + soft filters = aesthetic.
I lived in a dorm with 22 girls for over a year, which was as chaotic and joyful as it sounds. There were clothes everywhere, gossip at all hours, karaoke on weeknights, and a rotating schedule of who cried in the shared bathroom and who made the best Indomie. Later, four of us moved into a kost near campus, where life got quieter—but no less intimate.
We watched movies between classes, cooked random recipes that made our kostan smell like warteg fusion, and stayed up late practicing Mandarin pronunciation for no reason other than the thrill of trying. We made homes out of mismatched bedsheets and borrowed rice cookers. We weren’t just growing up—we were becoming someone, and it was happening in real time.
Some of those dorm-era friendships faded after graduation.
But the space we shared—chaotic, crammed, and weirdly sacred—still lives in me.
College didn’t just give me a degree—it gave me proof that community can be loud, unfiltered, and life-saving.
4. The Colleagues Who Became My Lifeboat During Corporate Chaos
I joined the sales team as the youngest member—celebrated my 22nd birthday in that office, surrounded by seasoned reps in their 30s. Over time, the team grew younger, tighter, and louder. We became a little dysfunctional family that fought together, laughed together, hit impossible numbers together.
And then there was our boss.
He wasn’t a salesman, but somehow he was leading the team. Micromanaging, obsessed with validation, and incapable of celebrating anyone else’s shine. Especially those close to the owner—he saw them as threats. His go-to strategy? Marginalize, gossip, invalidate. He once made us drive back to the office just to clock out after a visit. That level of petty.
He pushed us to the edge—pressuring numbers, guilt-tripping loyalty, turning the team into a spreadsheet-driven survival zone. I used to admire him. Then I saw him cheat on someone we knew. The ick? Permanent.
But here’s the thing: through that chaos, we became unbreakable.
We cried in break rooms and danced during lunch. We covered for each other, carried each other. We survived.
And long after he was gone, we stayed.
There’s still a group arisan going strong in 2025. That’s what trauma-bonded love looks like—turning shared pain into lifelong community.
And my little trio—three younger women who proudly call themselves Puspa Academy grads—will always be my mentees, my teammates, my inner circle. I was their boss, their life coach, their therapist, and sometimes their dinner ride. And they? They helped me stay soft when work tried to make me steel.
5. The Ones Who Slowly Drifted Away
Not all friendships end with fireworks.
Some just... dissolve. Slowly. Quietly. Like leaving a group chat without saying goodbye.
We used to laugh until we couldn’t breathe.
Now we skip each other’s Stories.
There’s no fight, no bitterness—just the soft, strange ache of distance.
Sometimes I think about texting them. But then I don’t.
Not because I don’t care. But because I don’t know who we are to each other anymore.
Some friendships were never meant to last a lifetime.
They were meant to light up one beautiful season—then make room for something new.
6. The Once-in-a-While People Who Still Feel Like Home
We don’t talk every day anymore.
Life did its thing—moved us to new cities, new careers, new late-night thoughts.
But some people? They’re not part of your daily story. They’re part of your core memory.
That’s how I’d describe these three.
One of them—my bebeb FMCG king—is still my day-one soulmate.
Smart, witty, effortlessly likable.
He could charm a UN panel and still remember your favorite meme.
He writes like a dream, speaks like he was born for diplomacy, and has probably attended more Model United Nations than I’ve had decent night’s sleep.
He’s sharp, eloquent, a little dramatic, and fiercely kind.
We called each other babe before I even met my husband.
And guess what? My husband’s never been jealous.
Because real ones know—bebebs are forever.
We still talk like we’re 20 and invincible. Still hype each other up like we’re about to solve world peace before lunch.
The other one—soft, sweet, movie-scene handsome—is now living his quiet truth in Sweden.
He grew up in a very, very conservative household. Like, pesantren-and-hajj-travel-agency conservative.
He needed distance. He needed safety. And he took it.
Now he’s building his life in a space where he can breathe—and love—freely.
Even my husband says, “If he were straight, women would be lining up and he would be a total badass.” And he’s 100% right.
The three of us went on spontaneous midnight escapes—1.5-hour drives just to eat nasi goreng in the middle of nowhere, laughing like life couldn’t touch us.
We didn’t have money, but we had hope. And playlists. And delusions of grandeur.
We used to dream—half joke, half manifest—about moving to New York together.
We’d rent a rooftop apartment in Brooklyn with a leaky sink and fairy lights, drink cheap wine, and play indie songs while pretending we were in a coming-of-age movie.
We didn’t know how it would happen—we just knew we wanted to land somewhere big enough for all our chaos.
Spoiler: We didn’t end up in Brooklyn.
But those nights of “what if” built a kind of hope I still carry.
Then there’s my girl best friend—my anchor in human form.
She’s the kind of person who makes you want to be softer without feeling weak.
She reminds me to stay grounded when I’m spinning, to be kind when I want to clap back, and to laugh when I forget how.
She’s a walking “don’t forget who you are” moment.
I don’t even need to explain things to her anymore—she just gets it.
We share too many life overlaps to be random.
When I spiral, she’s the one who gently grabs me by the metaphorical collar and says,
“You’re not that special, but I love you anyway. Now drink water.”
She’s kind. Humble. Unshakably optimistic.
If my life was a storm, she’s the lighthouse that never makes it about herself.
And she always smells like she has her life together.
Which is rude—but I forgive her.
We still talk—maybe once every month or two—just enough to remind each other: I'm here, still rooting for you.
These are the friends who live in the in-between.
The permanent resident in my heart.
Not always present, but never truly gone.
They show up for the big stuff, and they know when to send a meme instead of a paragraph.
We don’t talk every day.
But if I ever had to make a midnight phone call—I know exactly who I’d dial.
This is adult friendship: low maintenance, high depth.
Less sparkle. More spine.
7. And Today, My Closest Friends Are the Ones I Choose
These days, my best friends don’t always come in matching outfits or post birthday carousels on Instagram.
They’re the ones who know my threshold for nonsense, my emergency face, and exactly how I take my tea when I’ve had a long day.
My husband. My sister. My mom. My Two Cats, Georgie & Pepito.
We don’t always agree, but we love each other on purpose. And honestly? That beats drama-filled intensity any day.
Then there’s my work team—people I spend more hours with than anyone else on earth.
We share space, stress, sarcasm, Google Sheets, and unsolicited personal updates.
Some days we’re coworkers. Some days we’re co-parents of each other’s bad moods.
But they’re my people. My frontline. My 07:30–16:30 family.
There’s also a small, sacred circle I call my weekend crew.
Colleagues-turned-friends who love wandering, adventuring, trying new food and finding hidden coffee shops that don’t even exist on Google Maps.
My husband adores them, too. Mostly because they’re grounded, kind, and never invite chaos to dinner.
And then—there are the lifelines.
The Once-in-a-While People Who Still Feel Like Home.
Three people who’ve stuck around across time zones and job changes, despite only texting once every few months.
They don’t demand space. They just offer it, when I need it most.
This is friendship in my 30s: less loud, more rooted.
Less about showing up everywhere, more about showing up where it counts.
Less performative. More profound.
I used to chase friendship like it was something I had to earn—through availability, through effort, through emotional labor.
Now? I just protect the ones that protect me back.
These are no longer just friendships.
They’re foundations.
They’re my chosen constants in a world that keeps shifting.
And maybe the most beautiful part?
They chose me back.
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