Gym lockers don’t lie.
I learned this when my birthday code—0412—popped open Naveen’s locker instead of mine. Inside, between his gym wraps and energy drinks, sat a notebook with my name on half the pages.
Dates. Conversations. Even my coffee order.
For weeks, I noticed things—how he always remembered my sister’s birthday, how he’d mention offhand comments I’d forgotten making.
“Dude, are you keeping files on me?” I finally asked during our usual post-workout smoothies.
His straw stopped mid-sip.
What came next was a confession I wasn’t ready for: the depressive episodes he hid, the divorce that shattered his memory, the suicidal night three years ago when my dumb text (“Burritos tomorrow?”) made him put down the pills.
“I started writing things down so I wouldn’t lose people,” he whispered. “Your birthday’s the code because… you’re why I’m still here.”
Last month, I bought matching notebooks. His reads “Things Worth Remembering” in my messy caps. Mine says “Things I Should’ve Noticed.”
Sometimes friendship isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about seeing the quiet battles—and showing up, pen in hand.
