A story of friendship and loss
Alan was one of my best friends in elementary school—and in life. In fact, he was the first person I ever called my “best friend.”
We went to the same school and were in the same class for six years.
We shared certain interests. We played tazos, Metal Slug, and foosball every morning before school at a little shop nearby, and we had a blast. Some parents saw us as slackers, but we only did it because our parents dropped us off early since they had to go to work.
One of my most cherished memories has to do with Alan and the time he lent me the Yu-Gi-Oh! game for PlayStation. One morning, he came to school all excited, telling me about the cards that appeared in the game. He had barely owned it for a week, yet he still lent it to me because he knew I would love it. He was such a kind person.
He also had incredible charisma—especially for a kid. Everyone liked him. He could dance like Michael Jackson, and our classmates constantly asked him to do the moonwalk. He could also beatbox and came up with rhymes that made absolutely no sense. He tried to teach me, but I never quite got the hang of it.
Throughout elementary school, I made new friends. Alan matured early, and I… well, let’s just say I took a little longer to catch up. One time, he told me his penis had grown almost overnight and asked if I had any pubic hair yet. I was still pretty innocent, so his comments freaked me out, and I started hanging out with him less. But we still played basketball during recess and talked almost every day about whatever was on TV.
No matter how much I think about it, I can’t remember exactly why we started drifting apart in the last two years of elementary school. I know I had new friends, but they also liked Alan. Maybe he just distanced himself a little because he had matured faster than the rest of us.
I also remember that he had some friends from his neighborhood—older kids, probably finishing middle school. Looking back as an adult, I can see how much that influenced him, especially in a negative way. In the last years of elementary school, he became one of those classmates that everyone liked, but no one really had in their close group.
After graduation, he switched schools, and we lost touch. We only ran into each other twice during middle and high school.
The first time was outside a movie theater—one of those encounters where the small talk is just, “What movie did you see? Oh, and how was it? Did you like it?” By then, I think it had been a couple of years since I’d last seen him, but puberty had done its thing, and it felt like a decade had passed.
The second time was on Facebook, years later. We were about to finish high school. We chatted, and I found out he had a child. We said we’d meet up someday, but, as expected, that day never came.
In 2012, I found out he had heart failure because the news of his heart transplant was all over the local media. The surgery had been a success, and it was the first time something like that had been done in the country. Even though we had chatted on Facebook before, my anxious self couldn’t even bring itself to send him a message saying I was happy his surgery had gone well.
I kept up with important events in his life through Facebook—he used to post a lot. He went to the gym often and loved going clubbing.
Even though, for one reason or another, he was always present in my life, we never reconnected.
The last time I saw him, I was twenty and in my second year of college. I was out having burgers with some friends, and in the middle of dinner, I went to buy cigarettes at a nearby store. Back then, I smoked almost daily. On my way there, I ran into Alan. It had been years—basically since that time at the movies. He looked a bit sad and somewhat worn out. We walked past each other, locked eyes, recognized one another, but neither of us said “hello.”
I remember his face perfectly—the look he gave me when he saw me. He was waiting for me to say something. At the time, his expression struck me as odd. But embarrassment and the fear of an awkward moment kept me from greeting him.
About a year later, Alan passed away. His heart failed again, and he died of a heart attack. When I found out, I couldn’t stop thinking about him and that fleeting encounter where shame—or time—got the best of us. I mourn his death in silence for weeks.
After his death, his mother would post messages and photos on his Facebook profile, sharing how hard it was to deal with the loss and how much she missed him. Every time I saw one of those posts, my heart shattered. Partly because it reminded me of my own brother and mother—I imagined how unbearable it would have been for her to lose her son.
After a while, his mother closed Alan’s profile, saying that he had personally asked her to do so when he was sick, before passing away. I haven’t seen a photo of him in years but I remember him pretty well.
I often think about that missed opportunity. I could’ve greeted him, said something—even if it ended with a “We should hang out sometime,” only for it to never happen.
And while I regretted it for a while, the truth is, I don’t feel bad about it anymore. I’m one of those people who believe that people only truly die when they’re forgotten. And I know I’ll never forget Alan. I think of him from time to time, of how much his friendship meant to me as a child, and of the incredibly kind things he did for me. It’s also beautiful to realize that some gestures from others leave a permanent mark on us. I’ll never forget how amazing it was to discover that Yu-Gi-Oh! game thanks to him.
At some point, I wanted to message his mom on Facebook—to offer my condolences and tell her how good of a friend her son had been to me. But I never found the courage. Maybe now is a good time.
Thank you, Alan, for being—and for having been—my first best friend.