A friend who charged admission

Imagine a friend who slides a bill across the table every time you meet. Paid up front, no exceptions. They cut into your best conversations. They get cranky the day you skip them. They tag along to your hardest days and invoice you there too. You'd have cut them off by the second visit.

Yet people call the cigarette an old friend. Maybe you did too. So judge it the way you'd judge anyone, by its record. It charged a cover at every visit and called it company. It never once asked how you were. Over time it asked for more and gave less. That wasn't a friendship. It was a tab.

And still, part of you misses it. That's allowed. Anything that showed up that often leaves a shape behind, and the shape aches whether or not it deserved you. You're missing the pauses, the doorways, the version of you who stood in them. God doesn't need you to pretend this costs nothing. He walks with you while it aches.

Now spend some of the money it used to take on someone who never sent a bill. Pick a real friend today. A cousin, an old roommate, the neighbor who always waves. Buy lunch for two. Then watch them ask how you're doing and mean it. That's what company feels like when it gives something back.