Two years ago, I lost a friend. She didn’t die. We were supposed to build something beautiful together, a company that would become one of the most defining parts of my life. We had known each other for years, worked side by side, built trust and rhythm. She was one of the best people at my wedding.

But somewhere between dreams and delivery, trust broke. Slowly, quietly. She didn’t feel comfortable building with me and my partner, and that truth created a silence I didn’t know how to fill. I tried to understand, but after hearing a few things from mutual friends, I decided to stop trying.

For over two years, we didn’t speak.

And yet, even in her absence, I thought of her often. During milestones, birthdays, product launches, even the company acquisition. Moments that should have been shared but weren’t.

We finally reconnected a few days ago. It was awkward at first, then strangely familiar. Talking to her felt like opening an old window. The air was warm, but it carried the scent of something that once burned. I felt peace, but also deep sadness. Because no matter how kind reconciliation feels, it can’t restore the moments we missed.

This year, I lost another friend. He didn’t die either.

He just disappeared.

He stopped replying to messages, ignored calls, and vanished from my life without a word. The irony is that I wasn’t surprised. He had done similar things to others, but I never imagined he would do it to me. We had done impossible things together. I thought mutual respect and friendship meant something stronger than that.

The day I realised it was real was when I went to his office for a meeting with his boss. He knew I was coming, and by the time I arrived, he had quietly left the building. No message. No excuse. Just absence. I remember feeling small, like I had done something wrong I couldn’t name.

For nearly two months, I reached out. I even checked with his wife, carefully, without giving too much away. But nothing. Just silence.

That silence changed something in me. It made me question how well I really know people, especially those I meet through work. It made me more guarded, not bitter, just cautious. Because I’ve learned that brilliance and connection don’t always mean safety. Sometimes the people who work beside you every day are capable of vanishing without goodbye.

These two friendships taught me different kinds of grief.

One left through discomfort and we found our way back through honesty.

The other left through avoidance and never came back at all.

I carry both like ghosts. Reminders of what trust costs and how fragile it can be. I’ve learned that people don’t have to die to leave a hole in your life. Some just walk out quietly, and you spend months or years rearranging your heart around the space they left behind.

If you’ve ever lost someone who’s still alive, you know what I mean. There’s no closure, no funeral, no language for it. Just absence.

Hard lessons, yes. But maybe the right kind. The kind that doesn't make you cynical, just clearer about what you’ll give, and to whom.