Covalent Bonds
It was a cold couple of weeks, both in terms of stress and the environment. I was living close to two of my friends, Vivek and Sid. Yes, the same name as Sid from _Ice Age_. The similarities don’t end there — both are witty, kind, and empathetic. But our Sid is also smart and persistent, unlike the Sid from _Ice Age_.
Funny how I call everyone friends, yet how disconnected I’ve felt. From an early age, I was always the odd one out. I never had what you’d call a friend circle — not even in school. It’s tough to think about, especially when you realize I was in a boarding school with 500 other kids, and my class had at least 40 students. Still, there was no one I felt close to or safe with. It was the same before boarding school, too. I always wanted to fit in, to be recognized — even at the expense of truth and vulnerability. I used to tell made-up stories just for the sake of attention. I was afraid that my so-called friends would make fun of my authentic self, that they wouldn’t like me for who I truly was. I didn’t realize it then, but it was because I felt alone. But that’s a story for another day.
I was about to go home to India and was under immense financial pressure. I had to help my family back home with my sister’s wedding while also fending for myself in Germany. I simply didn’t have enough money to support both. It was tough. I was struggling, and things weren’t going as they should have.
Before going home, all of us friends planned to cook a meal together and spend a weekend night drinking. We gathered at Sid and Vivek’s place. I was almost wasted, and things were going fine. Back then, I had long hair, and everyone was playing with it. Who am I kidding? They were making fun of it. But it was a fun time. In the middle of it all, though, someone mentioned my sister’s marriage. I was struck by the stress I’d been dealing with. I turned pale, my heart racing, and my mouth felt dry. My hands were tumbling. I was almost dizzy.
Sid was in his element, cracking jokes, his energy infectious. Vivek was no different, effortlessly lightening the mood with his playful teasing. “Bro, with that long hair, you look like a wannabe Jesus,” reaching over to mess up my hair.
I grinned, swatting his hand away, and pretended to be annoyed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you,” forcing my voice to sound casual. But my chest felt tight, like I was wearing a shirt two sizes too small.
The room was warm, the air tinged with the smell of alcohol and leftover pizza. I took another sip from my glass, hoping the burn would help me relax. It didn’t. Instead, my throat felt drier, my heart thudding unevenly.
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I leaned back against the wall, trying to focus on the conversation, but my vision was unfocused, faces blurring at the edges. My hands were cold and clammy, hidden safely in my pockets where no one could see them trembling.
I felt trapped, stuck between wanting to be present and the heavy weight pressing down on my chest. My mouth was dry, words stuck somewhere between my mind and tongue. I tried to laugh at another one of Sid’s jokes, but it came out wrong — forced, hollow.
“Hey, you good?” Sid’s voice cut through the noise. For a moment, I thought of brushing it off, of saying I was just tired or maybe a little drunk. But the room felt like it was closing in, the walls inching closer. Sid asked me again, “Is everything okay?” He didn’t know what I was going through. I didn’t say anything. I was stuck in the moment. I looked around, suddenly hyperaware of everything — the hum of the refrigerator, the flicker of the ceiling light, the weight of their gazes. I was unable to speak.
Then they started asking repeatedly for answers. My eyes felt watery, I said to myself, get it together. Don’t cry. There will be an explanation to give. It was too much. I couldn’t hold it together. I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I felt relief. All I remember from that moment is people asking me what was wrong and me just sobbing. Even in my intoxicated state, I didn’t give in to speaking. Hmm, I’m strong — my father must be proud. Or am I really strong?
Seeing me cry, a girl I barely knew started crying too. I smiled. Why was she crying now? She couldn’t handle seeing a grown man cry. She was emotional. I understood — she had just come abroad about a week ago, leaving home and experiencing the shock of a society that can be cruel and tough.
Even on that night, when it would have been easy to open up, I hesitated to utter a single word. I didn’t. Then they stopped asking, sparing me the difficult position, I assume. They guided me to Sid’s bed and told me I should sleep there instead of going to my own place. They went and dropped the new girl and my old friend at their houses. That old friend knew about the struggles I was going through. I had never told her everything, but she knew because we’d been together in the past and had known each other for five years. She must have told them.
I was still awake when Sid and Vivek came back, but I pretended to sleep. They came into the bedroom and started chatting. One said, “I’ve never seen him like that.” The other replied, “He’s one dumb motherfucker. Why didn’t he say anything? I would’ve helped him.” I was still pretending to be asleep. They debated whether to wake me up and talk to me but decided to let me sleep and talk in the morning.
Oh, I thought, I’ll have to tell them everything in the morning. I wondered what to say. I certainly wasn’t feeling brave enough for the truth. Thinking about it, I fell asleep.
The days followed were of relief and gratitude. I was still Jay, I am uncomfortable, I carry a shell turtles might envy. I still struggle with asking for help, but despite that, I felt comfortable knowing they understood my troubles. This is friendship — the kind of friendship I had never been open enough to build before. It requires vulnerability. It requires showing emotions. It requires asking for help. Friendships are built not by helping but by asking for help. When you ask for something, you secretly imply that you trust them to help you out. That’s what builds bonds.
I can’t believe how bad I was at asking for what I wanted. I still am. Afraid to trust, afraid to be rejected. But I’m brave enough to ask for help now. Brave enough to be authentic. Brave enough to know better — to know that people understand pain. But what if they just make fun of our misery? Trust me, Jay, friends won’t.
