Mike and I went to see a play tonight with a couple that we are good friends with. It was a great play, and we had a great night with them - but something happened that night that was, for me, very jarring.

During the intermission, a man and a woman moved past us to get into the lobby and stretch their legs. With a jolt, I realized that the woman trying not to step on my feet was someone that I had once been very good friends with - in fact, someone that had once been my best friend. She didn't see me - she had kept her head down, making sure to avoid all the feet.

This woman was my friend when we were in college, and she and I were very close. Suffice it to say that circumstances caused our friendship to gradually become strained, and when it finally ended, it was not on a good note. 

In months and years later, I occasionally thought about my former friend, and reflected on the relationship we had; I came to feel like I didn't act very maturely when we last spoke, and our friendship closed. Granted, I don't think that any "break-up" is entirely the fault of only one person - there are always two people at play, and with me and my friend, the same is true. But I felt more and more like my actions did not reflect the best of me during our last conversation.

So, I wrote to her. About two years ago, I sent her an email saying to her that I knew that a lot could probably be said on both sides, but that I was sorry that I didn't handle things better. I told her that in retrospect our friendship had been growing more distant for some time, and that I shouldn't have let my hurt and anger get in the way; I should have handled it more gracefully.  I also told her that she didn't have to respond if she didn't want to. And she didn't. To this day, I don't know if that email ever got to her, or if she just chose to ignore it.

But for some reason, that friendship has haunted me. I think about our comraderie and comment about it to my husband, bringing up stories or movies that we used to like. In some ways, it has similarities to talking about a past romantic relationship. Mike asked me, early in our dating, if he thought I would ever reconcile with this person, if he would ever get to meet her. I told him, "No," and he said, "That's too bad. The stories you tell make me want to know her." And it's true on both counts - no, I don't think we will ever be friends again, and yes, he would have enjoyed knowing her, if he ever met her.

So seeing this woman tonight was a jolt. Not just that - my heart really did pound in my chest, and my stomach felt nervous. It was early in the intermission that she walked past, so I had plenty of time to neurotically discuss what I should do - should I hope that she doesn't see me when she walks past? Should I announce myself? Was it even a big enough deal to think about? 

In the end, I waited until she was seated again, and then called her name and said hello. It was an awkward moment; we both were keenly aware that it wasn't just a situation where old friends had run into each other - the last time we spoke, hurtful things had been said. Our conversation was brief: "Hey." "Oh - hi!" "I just wanted to say hello...you walked past us just now." "Oh...I didn't see you." "Yup...it was us."

So I guess the question is...why did I even say anything? I'm still not sure why. It felt adolescent, but I have thought of her many times. Mike has heard me mention her many times. If I went home that night knowing that I didn't say something to her, it would have grated on me. That, ultimately, was why I spoke up. I realized it was awkward, and - of course - afterwards, I thought of a hundred different things I should have said. I even contemplated sending her an email or trying to find her on Facebook or Myspace to explain myself and my awkard cadence during our 30-second conversation.

But, ultimately, I realized that there isn't a lot to say. I'm glad that I said hello to her tonight - in a strange way, it felt empowering. Instead of waiting and wondering whether she would realize I was sitting just a few seats away from her and wondering what would happen, I took control and took the situation into my own hands. We spoke, acknowledged each other. But after that - we watched the second half the play and went on our separate ways without even seeing each other.  Mike and I went out for a drink with our friends and talked about various things, and on the drive home, I realized that everything there was to say had been said when she didn't respond to my email almost two years ago. There's clearly nothing that can be exchanged between the two of us.

As I write this, I still feel the pangs of second-guessings. Should I have said this? Should I have said that? What if I sounded like I still am angry or upset - or, even worse, too eager to rekindle a friendship? In truth, I'm none of that. If anything, I feel sincerely regretful of my inability to handle the end of a friendship when it happened with her. I wish I had been more mature at the time. I wish that we had been able to be friends after all of that, in spite of ourselves.

It was a strange night.