There was a time, not too long ago, when my best friend and I would meet at our favorite little restaurant. It wasn’t fancy, just a cozy place tucked away from the rush of the world. The food was always good, but that wasn’t why we went there. It was our place—a spot where laughter came easy, where conversation flowed without effort, where silence was never awkward, only comfortable.
Lunch was our ritual. We’d sit in our usual booth, talk about everything and nothing, and enjoy the simple joy of a meal shared between friends. When the plates were cleared, I would always order dessert—a slice of cake, rich and sweet, a small indulgence at the end of our time together.
He never ordered dessert for himself, but as I took my first bite, he would sometimes reach over and take the tiniest piece. Just a taste. He never said much about it, but I knew he enjoyed it in his own quiet way. I didn’t mind at all. We shared everything, after all.
Then, one day, he was gone.
The loss was heavy, an emptiness I couldn’t quite explain. The world kept moving, but something felt missing. The laughter, the conversation, even the quiet—it was all too still without him. And yet, I found myself going back to that same restaurant, sitting in our booth, ordering the same meal.
And always, always, I ordered a piece of cake.
At first, it was just sadness—an unbearable weight pressing down on me as I sat alone. But then, as I took that first bite, something else happened. The memories would come rushing back, warm and vivid. I could almost hear his voice, see his knowing smile, feel the echo of his presence across the table.
That little piece of cake became more than dessert. It became a bridge to the past, a reminder of a friendship that had shaped me in ways I could never fully put into words.
Some days, the ache of missing him is strong. Other days, the memories bring more comfort than pain. But no matter what, when I sit down to have a piece of cake, I feel him there with me. And in that moment, I know that our friendship—the laughter, the conversations, the quiet understanding—was a gift from God. A gift I will cherish for the rest of my days.
The best feeling on earth, is that feeling I have just before I eat a piece of cake. And so, I eat my cake, and I remember.
And in that remembering, he is never truly gone.
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