Family Plan

The glow of Spotify's user interface casts a neon green pallor on your face, making you look like a budget villain from a sci-fi movie. "Diego," you mutter to yourself, "you're a grown man. You pay taxes. Sometimes. You can do this." Your cursor hovers over the 'Cancel Family Plan' button like a fly contemplating its next landing spot.

It's been almost a year since your friends ghosted you. After you moved to Spain with your girlfriend –now wife– they vanished from your life faster than your commitment to New Year's resolutions. Yet, like a bad sitcom, you all still share a Spotify Family account. You, in a move that's part selflessness and part forgetting-to-cancel-the-subscription, have been footing the bill.

Memories flood back – impromptu dance parties, road trips with songs blaring, quiet evenings where music filled the gaps in conversation. These moments, now ghosts in your heart, are tied to this account, this last thread connecting you to a past you can't revisit.

Letting go of this account isn't just about saving a few bucks each month. It's about accepting that the bonds that once held you together have loosened. It's about acknowledging that you have all moved on and that your lives are no longer as intertwined as they once were. Clinging to this vestige of your past will not bring back the times you shared.

"Family plan my ass," you mutter, and a wave of sorrow washes over you. This is more than just a subscription – it's an acknowledgment that some paths are meant to diverge, like your friends' taste in music and anything remotely in key.

‘Enough is enough,’ you declare to the empty room, startling your cat, who's judging you from its throne of a well-worn armchair. "Time to cut the cord, sever the ties, and other dramatic metaphors that would make a soap opera writer proud."

You tap. A pop-up appears: ‘Are you sure? Your family will miss you!’ You snort. "The only thing they'll miss is free music," you scoff, tapping 'Yes, I'm sure' with the kind of finality usually reserved for action heroes defusing a bomb.

Later that evening, you sit on the couch, fidgeting with a book. Your partner lounges beside you, her head resting in your lap. She's scrolling through something, but her attention shifts when she notices your restless demeanor.

"What's up?" she asks, her voice tinged with concern. "You've been acting weird since you did the whole Spotify rebellion thing."

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "It's just... when I axed the plan, it felt like I was finally moving on. But now, I'm second-guessing if I was too rash."

Octavia sits up, her expression softening. "Talk to me. What's really going on?"

You hesitate, then blurt out, "It's just... Remember how we all were when we lived in your grandparents' place in Venezuela during the crisis and when we dropped acid after new year’s eve back in Argentina? I miss that."

With a deep, resigned sigh, you realize the truth that has been gnawing at you. The shared account stood up for a bond that once felt unbreakable, a connection that had defined a significant part of your life. But holding onto friendship felt like grasping at straws. The tighter you hold, the quicker it seems to slip away.

Octavia puts down her phone, giving you her full attention. "I know it’s tough, but things change. We've changed."

"We were inseparable, and now... it's like we've all just drifted apart."

Octavia nods, understanding. "I miss them too. We were really close, but people change. Life happens, you know? It doesn't erase what we had."

You look at her, your eyes filled with sadness and nostalgia. "Do you think they ever think about those times? About us?"

"I'm sure they do," Octavia replies gently. “Maybe we all need time.”

In the stillness that follows, the familiar hum of the city outside breathes with you, granting you a moment to absorb the weight of your decision. The Spotify playlist, now a solo venture, plays a haphazard mix of tunes. Each song mocks your attempts at moving on, a reminder that letting go isn't as easy as clicking a button.

Octavia, ever perceptive, notices your distant, shell-shocked gaze and how you absentmindedly toy with your book. "You're still thinking about it, aren't you?" she asks, her voice a mix of concern and understanding.

You nod, the words spilling out. "It's stupid, I know. It's just a Spotify account. But it feels like I'm losing a part of myself, a part of us."

Resentment lingers, a stubborn stain that refuses to be scrubbed clean. The night doesn't end with a dramatic resolution or a profound insight. You know that not letting go is an anchor dragging behind you, yet you can't help yourself. Holding onto this account and nurturing this grudge wasn’t helping, but it gave you the illusion that you were all still a family.

Maintaining the account and paying for Spotify was just an attempt at keeping your friendship alive. It terrified you that letting go of this last thread meant the distance between you was too great to bridge. But holding on didn’t seem feasible either. Sugar-coating that this chapter of your friendship is closed isn’t the most healthy thing to do. But there is another part, perhaps the part still raw from the sting of abandonment, that isn't ready to let go. 

Hours later, as you lay in bed, the stillness of the night enveloping you, these thoughts still circle in your mind. For hours, you wallow in the saccharine self-pity of your lost friendship and convince yourself that you did the right thing until exhausted at 3:42 am, you drift into a restless sleep.