What does it truly mean to call someone a friend? Is there an invisible gauge by which we measure the depths of connection, or is friendship a fluid construct; something we shape and redefine in our own way, moment by moment?
Is friendship born from effortless communication, where words flow freely across the mundane and the profound? Do friends gather not only to share joy but to etch memories into the fabric of their lives? Is a friend the one who sits with us in silence, holding space for our darkest hours? Or are these gestures sometimes veiled in self-interest, wrapped in expectations we never consented to?
Is friendship a quiet agreement, a mutual understanding that transcends spoken terms? To be a friend, must one care deeply and love without restraint? Or are we merely passing ships, with one of us casting anchor while the other drifts away; still bound by the word acquaintance, though our hearts tell different stories?
— Sincerely, Boris