My cousin Elena was celebrating her birthday with her family. She had a lot of relatives there — about 16 people. At some point, I left the table and went to the kitchen, as table talk exhausts me pretty quickly. In a sense, I don't consider myself a grownup in this environment — I'm over thirty, yes, but I always felt a better connection with cousins who are ten years younger than me. Birthday girl, Elena, on the other hand, feels like a fish in the water among our older relatives, even though we are the same age. And maybe she figured out how to be a grownup properly — she has a husband and a six-year-old son Vanya.

Over time, a bunch of people gathered in the kitchen. Vanya was bothering his uncle Sergey. They were play-fighting, then Sergey lifted him up and started spinning him around like a toy, even hanging him upside down behind his back. It was a scary thing to see — I was afraid he'd accidentally slam his head onto the kitchen counter. But Sergey was probably fully in control. I would assume that, because I had a lot of experience spinning and flinging and tossing and hanging upside down his younger brother Max. Max was exactly Vanya's age, and I was about 20 years old back then. The resemblance of the scene was surreal! Even more surreal was the fact that Max stayed right here, in the same kitchen near the window, all grown up now. But we haven't talked for more than two years. He shook my hand that day, but for the whole evening he didn't look at me even once.

I loved playing with Max like nothing else in the world. It was occasional at first, just when our families would meet. But over time I became very attached and started seeking meetings myself. We'd play videogames together, we'd watch cartoons, we'd playfight. We rode bicycles through the fields and to the river. When I moved to another town, he was the only reason I'd visit my village (I hope my folks haven't realized that). When I got my first job, I was happy I could spend some money on him. I'd let him have all the things I didn't have when I was a kid myself. I loved getting him a LEGO Technic set now and then. Although it was as much of a gift to him as to myself — I had the pleasure of helping him build the thing, and at the same time not having it clog my small apartment. When he was old enough that his parents would let him visit me, I started planning my vacations so they would match his school breaks. We'd visit the zoo, the movies, and arcades. We'd eat at restaurants. When I got my own apartment, I chose to have two sleeping places — a bed and a couch — even though the apartment is pretty small. A big closet would suit me better for another 50 weeks in the year, but those two weeks he'd be with me were much more important. And God forbid having him sleep on a folding bed! Our friendship lasted for years, adapting new activities over time. We switched bicycles for electric scooters then motorbikes. Funny thing is, I got my motorbike driving license so we could legally drive his electric scooter on the public road. It was a great motivator. I planned every decision in my life thinking how it would help us have more fun together. Not to make anyone think that I did it for him — I did it because I wanted to. I knew it wasn't healthy to be so overly obsessed over one person, but I didn't care. And I was so happy back then. I truly thought our friendship would last forever.

When he got older (he was around 15 years old at that point), I felt like we started drifting apart. We didn't like the same videogames anymore. He'd choose to spend time with his peers. And I think that's perfectly fine and healthy. But at some point, he started ghosting me for days. Even though we had planned our annual hangout for summer vacation beforehand, I didn't get a confirmation he'd come. And because I felt like our friendship was fading away, and it could be our last hangout, I wanted to make it the greatest one ever. I planned to do a lot of things, some things neither I nor he ever did before. But in the end, he didn't come, and didn't exlain why. I stopped reaching out. I figured that if he wanted to talk, he would. And he could always reach out himself. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And he never did. I couldn't help but think, did I do something wrong? Was my presence in his life too intrusive? At some point I accepted that I won't get closure, and that an absence of an answer is a closure in itself. He simply isn't interested. I shed a fair amount of tears. I had to remove photos from my wall because I couldn't look at them, I told relatives to neither mention him nor ask me about him. Out of sight, out of mind, you know? And then I moved on.

I think, by that point in my life, it was the hardest thing I had to experience. I even thought that it helped me to emotionally mature to some extent. I learned not to get too attached to all things external, even adopted (or made effort to adopt) some stoic teachings. Maybe that's how it was meant to be. Because I think that it helped me to live through all the shitty things that happened afterwards. Or so I thought. Because in the kitchen that day, looking at him, I realized that I haven't really moved on, and I've learned nothing.