The phone call on Tuesday at 1.34pm itself was a surprise; the words increased concern. People do not usually decide randomly "to take the rest of the afternoon off" and then call a friend for coffee. Or maybe they do.

I cleaned the kitchen this morning, with half a bottle of bleach, burning through congealed oil that has been on the stove since before it became mine, three years ago, and wiping away, still, dust from construction last autumn. The whiteness makes me happy, all while knowing that, in a week or five, it will get dingy again.

When I arrived at the café, he was already hanging up his jacket; I sat on the bench seat with the springs nearly poking through the upholstery, across the table. He ordered red wine, but looked healthy. We’ve known each other for more than three years.

There is something reassuring about knowing people for a long time. You have a past. You can call each other when an earthquake hits, and know what type of restaurant the other will like. You can go out, and when one of you wants to leave, can do so, independently, without having to worry about offending the other. There is someone there.

A surprise, for everyone concerned, it seemed: things at work turned unexpectedly, and he would be leaving Bulgaria in the coming months. At times like these, I envy cultures that allow the expression of grief in all its loud, ugly, uncomfortable display. Instead, we sit, hands folded; voices quiet, the whole beings entirely composed.

Walking through a neighbourhood north-west of Sofia centre a day later, I started to understand my mum’s concerns. Spraypainted on a number of buildings were phrases: "Skinheads 88", "White power", "Turks under the knife". The first two were in English. What, in these children’s upbringings, would motivate them to glorify such thoughts? When we talk on the phone, my mum, a librarian in a California high school, often expresses concern about the state of her nation’s youth, and how lost, how without guidance they seem.

I advise her to do what she can, and to not trouble over the rest. That is my nice, distanced advice. Here, now, what can or would I myself do? I do not know. (And, does this mean that I am getting old?)

People always come, and people always go. It has been repeated that, as a near-for-sure-permanent resident of a foreign country, it is best to not make friends with expats, because expats always leave. I have failed. And now suffer the results.

People always go. But, as someone very close said to me after leaving his partner of 25 years to go... elsewhere: "I have no regrets about this past". That departure was a choice. This, here, now, is not.

This friend does not know what awaits, save that it is no longer here in Bulgaria. Should one learn to limit one’s friends to those with long-term links to a place, in order to avoid repeated farewells?

The stove will get grimy again, our parents’ concerns will become our own, and people will leave. Johnny Cash, covering the Beatles, sang it perfectly: "I know I’ll never lose affection for people and things that went before; I know I’ll often stop and think about them..."

And, thank you.