We Don't Really Have to Meet, I'm Just Being Nice

I ran into Bernardo on Rua Garrett, right there between the Bertrand bookstore window and the hurried coming and going of trams and tourists. I hadn't seen him since that chaotic summer when we shared long nights in Bairro Alto and vowed eternal friendship over cheap sangria. The reunion required the city's usual choreography: an exuberant greeting in the air, tight hugs from people who haven't seen each other for a century, and that almost dramatic exclamation about how time flies.

Before the pedestrian light changed, came the inevitable phrase, uttered with almost religious urgency: "We have to have a drink this week! I'll text you, I swear!", and I thought to myself: "Hah, I'll shave my head if you actually text me!" I smiled, enthusiastically agreed, and promised my phone would be waiting. Seconds later, we each went our separate ways on the Portuguese pavement. I went down towards Baixa, he went up to Príncipe Real. And, at the exact moment I lost sight of him in the crowd, the stark truth hit me: neither of them was going to send any message.

And I couldn't helpbut wonder: when we say "let's talk" in Lisbon, are we genuinely trying to schedule a meeting... or are we just saying goodbye politely so as not to admit that we no longer fit into each other's lives?

In Lisbon, "we have to arrange something" has become the most devalued social currency in the city, suffering from inflation worse than rents in the Avenidas Novas district. It's the urban equivalent of the "I accept the Terms and Conditions" button on apps: everyone clicks it with a smile, but nobody reads it, much less intends to comply. We've transformed enthusiasm into courtesy and affective memory into an exercise in aesthetic diplomacy.

The truth is, we live terrified of honesty. To tell someone, "You were an incredible phase of my life, but today I no longer have the time or space for your story," sounds like a crime of lese-majesty. It's infinitely more comfortable to keep a shelf full of relationships on hold, promising coffees that will never be served and beers that will never be poured in the neighborhood. We feed the illusion that we are cosmopolitan, warm, and terribly busy, when in reality we are only managing the discomfort of admitting detachment.

In this social architecture of appearances, the "let's keep talking" attitude functions as a protective veneer for our ego. It keeps the door ajar, without ever slamming it shut, allowing us to roam the hills with the false sensation that we have an infinite network of affections.

As I went down the escalators at the Baixa-Chiado metro station, I looked at my cell phone and confirmed that there were no notifications. Neither Bernardo's, and definitely not mine either. And suddenly I felt a liberating relief. I realized there's a bittersweet elegance in accepting that not everyone who crosses our path needs to stay for dinner. Sometimes, the best chapter of a story is precisely the one where we know how to say goodbye with a beautiful smile... and the wisdom to never call again.