The Stranger I Knew for 20 Years: A Long-Distance Friendship, One Missed Call, and a Final Goodbye

There was this guy named Jim.

We never met in person. I didn’t know what he looked like. No Zoom calls, no awkward handshakes, not even a grainy photo. Just a name on my caller ID, a voice on the other end of the line, and a barrage of emails that started when I took a job over 20 years ago.

Jim worked in the corporate office, and I was the new guy replacing someone he apparently adored. And let’s just say… I didn’t exactly live up to his fantasy replacement. From day one, Jim and I butted heads. He liked control. I liked autonomy. He wanted procedures that didn’t fit the way things actually worked on the ground. I, a very grounded private chef-slash-control enthusiast with a side of sarcasm and two feet in reality, had other plans.

We clashed, professionally, with the kind of fireworks usually reserved for Fourth of July and petty workplace sitcoms. But somehow, over time — through gritted teeth, passive-aggressive emails, and the occasional “fine, Jim, I’ll do it your way” — we found respect. And, strangely, we found friendship.

For fifteen years, our conversations evolved from invoices and policy battles to updates about life. One day, Jim told me he had prostate cancer. Quietly. Not for sympathy. Just… so I’d know.

From there, the tone changed. We weren’t just coworkers anymore. We were humans, stripped of all the job titles and ego fluff. He talked about chemo. I talked about sarcoidosis and heart failure. We vented about pain, hospitals, and the weird way illness rewires your priorities. We texted about cats. We shared dumb jokes. He’d tell me about his smile. I’d send photos of mine.

But oh, Jim could still drive me up a wall. That part never changed.

Sometimes I’d see his name on my phone and groan — I do not have the energy for a Jim call today. Leave a voicemail, buddy. And if it was work stuff (it usually was), I’d email back with a dry “here’s why that won’t work” and get on with my day.

Then came a summer day a few years back. I was having lunch with my wife when the phone rang. Jim.

I hesitated. I was mid-bite, mid-sentence, mid-life. But my wife — the wise one — looked at me and said, “Life’s short. Just answer.”

So I did.

And it wasn’t about work. Not really. He opened with some flimsy work excuse, but what he really wanted was to talk. To share stories. To catch up. He told me about his nephew. I told him about my dog. We laughed. We stayed on the phone for 45 minutes, which in Jim-Time might as well have been a marathon.

He ended the call strangely — not in a dramatic way, just… different. The kind of goodbye that sticks to your ribs.

Two days later, he was gone.

Just like that.

No final text. No dramatic farewell. Just silence. And me, staring at my phone, glad I picked up. Because that lunch-call turned out to be the last time I’d hear his voice.

So here’s what I’ll say: pick up the phone. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re annoyed. Even when it’s someone who used to drive you crazy but somehow crept into your life and made a home there.

Friendship is weird. Grief is weirder. And missed calls? Sometimes, they echo forever.

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Have you ever lost someone you never actually met in person? Or had a friendship that was more real than most face-to-face ones? Share your story in the comments. And hey, if this post moved you — subscribe. I’ve got more where this came from.