We were broke college kids in Morgantown — the kind of broke where a five-dollar night out was a big deal. One night we counted our money and split a six-inch sub from Subway. Half a sandwich each, shared the chips, shared the drink. And somewhere in that perfect, broke, laughing night, we made each other a promise: we'd be each other's best man someday. Then life did what life does. After sophomore year we drifted down different paths and lost touch for years. Then one day, out of nowhere, Shawn called. He wanted me in his wedding. A week or two later his sister called and asked if I'd started my speech. My speech for what? I said. "Well — you're the best man." Shawn never actually asked me. He didn't have to. He just knew what we promised each other on that broke, perfect night. That was Shawn — when he counted on you, he never let go. He was the guy who'd do anything for anyone. If you needed him, he was already on his way. We lost Shawn more than twenty years ago. He was carrying a sadness the rest of us couldn't see — the kind that hides best in the people who give the most. The day he disappeared, his sister called me. We were all reaching for him any way we could. He never made it back to any of us. I've carried that day ever since. I can't turn back the clock. God knows I would. But I can ask you for one thing — the thing I wish I'd known to do for him: Slow down. When someone near you needs you — or just needs something — don't rush past it. Sit with them. Even in silence. Especially in silence. You don't have to fix anything. You just have to be there.