The Same Three

Every few years without fail, I go back to three shows: Friends, Scrubs, The O.C., maybe Skins. These grabbed me somehow and never let go. Probably shaped me more than any person I’ve known or band I’ve obsessed over. They were there from early childhood through every bad love affair, every stupid phase. They’ll be here at the end.

The flu knocked me flat last week—the real kind, the kind that empties you out. While I was on the couch, half-conscious, I scrolled through streaming apps clicking past new content. New seasons of Dirk Gently, new Disjointed, new Family Guy scattered across different services. All these options carefully designed to feel essential, and none of it meant anything to me. Nothing landed.

So I started Friends again. German dub this time, just for a different texture. From the beginning all the way through, the whole thing, until I’m thoroughly wrecked by the end. Three episodes in and I’m already settled into Monica’s apartment like I never left.

There’s something about these three that the new stuff can’t touch. It’s not nostalgia, exactly. It’s more like showing up to a place where nothing changes, where the people tell the same jokes, make the same mistakes, end up in the same coffee shop. You know what’s coming. You know every beat. And that’s the point—that knowledge doesn’t touch what you feel.

Rachel’s waiting, like she always is.