When I was just starting my career, my closest friend and I took long walks that ended with beers, every Friday. We bought bargain books from shops we both knew and loved. We watched films others didn’t like. Had big conversations about life, and small ones about nothing.

He was devout and fasted every Tuesday. He ended each fast with prayers at a local temple. After work, I’d go there with him and wait while he prayed. Over time, I even learnt the words. After prayers, we’d have dinner at his place. Talk. Watch cricket. Nothing dramatic.

Then he moved. Another city offered him a better job. No big deal, we thought. We can work around it. Over time, though, something changed. We still talked. We met whenever he visited, or whenever I did. But it wasn’t the same.

I couldn’t open up to him the way I used to. I don’t know if he felt the same way, or noticed. I don’t know how he feels about any of it; it’s something we never talked about.

Around this time, I began a romantic relationship with a lovely woman at work. It blossomed quietly at first. Then people began to notice. Now the needle on the relationship had to move.

We took a few tentative steps forward. It turned out, her family liked me and mine liked her. My friend and she got along beautifully. Everyone assumed we would end up together.

As we were getting closer, she received a job offer. It was a life-altering international gig. She had to take it. We’ll figure it out, we said. People like us, who have what we have, find ways to make it work.

We didn’t. She built a life there. I stayed here. The connection faded in a slow, unremarkable way that thankfully left no bruises. When she visits with her husband and children, we smile and catch up. Everyone still gets along.

But each time we meet, I am left wondering: How does the distance between people grow? How does one go from sharing something real, deep and tender to being more or less nodding acquaintances?

For a while, I thought of both these relationships as unfinished. Like chapters that had stopped mid-sentence. Now, I’m not sure they ever needed finishing. Maybe they are simply… played-out.

Maybe this is what intimacy really is. Ephemeral, but deep.

Defining relationships arrive unannounced, settle into one’s life like they’ve always belonged, stay for decades or for one fleeting season. Either way, there is always an exit coming.

There is a kind of peace that comes with accepting this. A quiet peace that allows one to revisit memories without flinching, or questioning. Allows one to smile at the thought of the long walks and earnest conversations.

Some people stay in our lives. Some don’t. Some leave and return in different shapes.

As the sands shift, what we get to keep are the memories. Not just of the person, but of who we were when we were with them. That is precious. Perhaps that’s enough.

(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached on assisi@foundingfuel.com)