There was a girl I met at church, sitting alone on a chair during our Sunday service. She looked so calm, so quiet — but something about her caught my attention. She was tall, beautiful, and there was this light around her that made me want to get to know her. I didn’t know her name yet, but I found myself watching out for her every Sunday. There was something about the way she sat alone — like she was waiting for someone, or maybe hiding something behind her silence.
Then came our youth camp. That day, I saw her again — this time with a friend. They stood out, not just because of how they looked, but because of how different they were from the crowd. I don’t know what it was, but there was an urge inside me to approach her. And eventually, I did. We talked. Just a simple conversation, but it felt like I had been waiting for it for a long time. That day turned out to be one of the best days of the camp. She opened up a bit, laughed a little, and I remember thinking, “I want to keep this girl close.”
Later on, I discovered something even more beautiful about her — her voice. She could sing. And not just sing — she had a voice that moved your heart. We invited her to join the music team at church. And from there, our friendship grew. She became part of my circle. Some of my closest friends became her friends too. We’d laugh together, serve together, eat together after service — it felt like a small family. And to me, she wasn’t just a friend anymore. She became my sister.
But then life happened.
Work started to consume my time. I got busier. There were weekends I couldn’t give her the attention I used to. There were moments when she might have needed someone to talk to… and I wasn’t there. Not because I didn’t care, but because I was trying to stretch myself for everyone. I didn’t want anyone to feel left out, but in doing that, I didn’t notice that someone was being left behind.
Then came two Sundays when I didn’t see her in her usual spot with the music team. It felt weird. There was a quiet worry growing in my heart. So I messaged her, just to check in. But she didn’t show up that Sunday either. It became a question mark in my mind — what happened? Did I do something wrong? Was she okay?
But I didn’t reach out again. I wish I did, but honestly, I felt hurt too. I didn’t know why she couldn’t tell me what was going on. I didn’t know why she chose to distance herself without a word. I asked one of our team members to reserve a chair for her the following Sunday, hoping she’d come. Hoping she’d take that small space as a sign that she was still welcome. Still loved. Still seen. But she didn’t show up. And the silence became heavier. Sometimes I wonder if she was waiting for me to come to her first. To notice her absence, to sit down beside her and say, “I’m here.” Maybe she was hurting and just didn’t know how to say it. Maybe she thought I didn’t care anymore. But I did. I still do.
Until now, I still want to talk to her. I still want to say sorry. But I get scared sometimes. What if she asks, “Why now?” What if she reminds me of the time she needed me, and I wasn’t there? That’s the part that hurts the most — the not knowing. But despite everything, I’m happy for her. I’ve seen her smile again. I’ve seen pictures where she looks at peace, like she’s found her rhythm somewhere else. Maybe with a new group. Maybe in a new chapter. And that’s okay. Because even if I’m no longer in her circle, I will always carry her in my heart — like a sister. I guess that’s the thing about real love… even when you grow apart, the care doesn’t fade.
She is now happy with her new friends and surroundings, and I couldn’t be happier seeing her comfortable with the life she’s building. I’ve always believed she deserved every good thing that has come her way — every milestone, every smile, every success. And today, I just want to say… Congratulations on your graduation!
If ever she sees this post, I want her to know how proud I am. I always knew she could do it — not just because she’s smart, but because she’s as beautiful in heart as she is on the outside.