Back in college, I had a friendship people would probably envy.
Think about it—what are the chances you’d meet someone in real life who shares your love for that one obscure, long-forgotten band from decades ago?
We were that kind of friends.
We’d go to the movies together after class, wander around the city, or just lie by the roadside talking about bands we liked.
We found the best craft beer bar in town and even became friends with the owner. We were obsessed with music and movies from the 70s and 80s.
She loved the Alien series and Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver; I’ll never forget the night we watched Jodorowsky films together—back then, we were probably the only two in our class who genuinely liked him.
We influenced each other:
I got into craft beer because of her, and her social media bio still features a movie quote I once recommended. Those days were some of the happiest, most precious times in my life.
After graduation, we went our separate ways.
She went to Leeds for graduate school, and I started working right away.
Even though we didn’t talk much anymore, we kept one small ritual alive — sending each other thoughtful birthday gifts every year.
At first, we both took gift-giving seriously.
But over time, the gifts became more random — little things you could find in any boutique: nice enough, but not exactly special.
Still, we both quietly understood. Life gets busy.
This year, when it came time to find gifts for her, I didn’t have any particular plan.
As usual, I just opened Google and threw in a few keywords like “Vinyl” and “Gift.”
That’s when I came across it —
She said this meaniful gift moved her — that she was touched I still remembered those days, even though we now lived in different parts of the world.
At that moment, I was really glad I sent that gift.
More from Tony Stubblebine and The Medium Blog