Billy D. and Me

The Field We Both Shared

When I graduated high school, we ended the ceremony the way a lot of big suburban schools did—caps and gowns shuffling into the gym, everyone waiting for parents, siblings, and awkward photos. My class had about 900 graduates. I remember scanning the crowd and thinking, I will never see these people again.

And for the most part, I was right. Except for two or three people I’ve seen a few times over the years, those faces vanished into the past.

Now, nearly 40 years later, Facebook tells me that one of those faces—the all-star athlete, the homecoming king, the guy who from all accounts was as good as they come—has passed away at 60. Too young.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t know him. Not really. The only memories I have are of him in gym class or seeing him on the football field on a Saturday afternoon. We lived in two entirely separate ecosystems. I was the music-side kid, in a long-term relationship that meant ditching friends for my girlfriend (yeah, I was that guy), while he was in the sports and popular crowd. Even the geography of the school kept us apart—his side and my side might as well have been different zip codes.

After graduation, we never crossed paths. The only reason I even knew about his life was the light Facebook connection—one of those “friends” in the algorithm sense, not in the real sense.

And yet… I feel something.

When I found out my high school girlfriend died in her forties, I understood why that cut deep. That was personal history. But this? This is strange. I should feel something—but why this much?

I’ve spent decades disassociated from all that was high school. I wasn’t bullied. I just never really felt connected. If I’m being honest, I liked junior high more. In high school, I was a bit of a lost soul. People knew me, sure—but not in a connected way.

My parents even sent me to a psychologist during those years to help me “attach” more. I wanted to go. But the truth is, I’ve always operated best in small, trusted circles. Even within those circles, friendships have often been temporary. That’s just the rhythm of my life.

Somewhere along the way, I learned that I am an ambivert—someone who is both introverted and extroverted, depending on the context. I’m comfortable in social settings, but they can also drain me. I like being with people, but I also need my space. I can be the life of the room on one night and perfectly happy being invisible the next. It’s a strange middle ground that has shaped how I connect—or don’t connect—with people.

Maybe that’s part of why I’m wrestling with this. His death is a reminder that time is quietly folding in on itself. That the people who were once fixtures in the backdrop of our youth—whether we knew them or not—are disappearing. Maybe it’s that he represents a slice of life I never fully entered, but was still part of my story in the margins.

Or maybe it’s just the math of life now. When someone my age dies, it shakes the glass. Makes me wonder how many more “unexpected” Facebook posts there will be. How many more names I’ll recognize without really knowing.

In the end, I can’t fully explain the melancholy. But I think it’s a mix of grief, nostalgia, and the strange way our personal histories are threaded together even when we barely touch. His life didn’t intersect much with mine, but we shared a time, a place, and an age. And maybe that’s enough to feel the loss.

We’re all temporary here. But sometimes, even the briefest connections echo longer than we expect.