I am thirty-five years old. I have one close male friend now, which is Ben. I see him twice a month. I have made two newer male friends — Sean and Alejo — through a sports league I joined in January, because my therapist told me I needed to rebuild. I am building slowly. I am being careful. I have learned, I think, that the male friendships I had in my twenties were built on a specific kind of loyalty that could not survive any of us actually being honest with each other, and that the

friendships I want in my thirties and forties are ones where honesty does not end the thing. Sometimes I miss the old group. I miss the poker nights, the group chat, the ski trip I will not go on this year. I do not miss the feeling of carrying four paragraphs in my wallet for six months and not being brave enough to read them. So tell me — was reading those paragraphs worth losing three of my oldest friends, or should I have let the silent drift finish the job?

* Story inspired by real-life situations. Names and details have been changed for privacy.