Part IV: The Silence Between the Lines
There’s this kind of silence that doesn’t come from the lack of words—it comes from the lack of meaning. The kind of silence that fills your chest even when messages are technically being sent back and forth. That’s what it’s been like with them lately. Cold, empty, performative. Like they’re just going through the motions so they won’t look like the bad guy. But honestly, I’d rather be ignored completely than feel this… half-alive, half-dead version of whatever’s left between us.
I’ve written so many things I’ll never send. Paragraphs sitting in my notes app. Messages typed out and deleted. Just thoughts I want to throw out into the universe, hoping someone hears them. Someone who isn’t them, I guess. Because I don’t trust them with my truth anymore. I don’t feel safe opening up to them now, not when they respond like they don’t want to be part of the conversation in the first place. That hurts more than being ignored. That makes me feel invisible in a way I didn’t know was possible.
I know people change. I know friendships don’t always stay the same. But I thought ours was different. I thought there was something unspoken holding it together. Now I see that I’ve just been holding it together by myself.
I still check my phone hoping they’ll say something real. Hoping maybe one day they’ll notice I’ve been quiet too. That I’ve stopped saying everything because I’ve realized I’m the only one still talking. But most days, I know that’s just a fantasy. They’ve moved on. And I’m still here, haunted by conversations we’ll never have again.
Maybe this is just how it ends. Not with a bang. Not with a goodbye. But with silence. And someone like me, writing into the void, trying to let go of a friendship that already let go of me.
–S
Part III: Remembering What We Had
I miss them. God, I miss them. And not just like in a passing “oh that was fun” kind of way. I miss them in that deep, aching, can't-shake-it-off, heavy-on-my-chest kind of way. I miss the way things used to feel with them. How easy it was to talk, how I didn’t have to think twice about saying something weird or vulnerable or honest because I knew, without a doubt, they’d get it. They’d get me.
Back then, we’d talk about anything. Stupid things, dreams, things we were afraid of, stuff we didn’t tell anyone else. The kind of things that made the world feel a little less scary because someone else knew it with you. We made each other laugh without trying, and it felt like there was always space for whatever we were feeling, even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
Now, I don’t even recognize them in our messages. They’ve become someone who replies out of politeness, not care. Someone who sees my words but doesn’t really read them. They used to check in without me having to ask. They used to notice when I was off. Now, I could scream in all caps and they still probably wouldn’t ask if I was okay.
I try to tell myself not to take it personally. That people grow. That maybe they’re busy. That maybe they’re tired. But how do you ignore this pit in your stomach when someone you used to be so close with starts treating you like a background noise they forgot to turn off?
I wish I didn’t care this much. I wish I could flip a switch and stop missing someone who barely looks in my direction anymore. But I do. I care so much it hurts. And I hate that they probably don’t even notice what they’ve left behind.
-S
Part II: What I Can’t Say Out Loud
I don’t know how to say it. I don’t even know if I should say it. But I’m hurting. And I don’t mean in a dramatic way or some attention-seeking thing—I mean I’m really, quietly, painfully hurting. And I don’t know who I’m allowed to say that to anymore. Because the one person I used to tell everything to… they’re gone. Not physically. They’re still here, technically. But emotionally? Spiritually? Whatever word you want to use for that soul connection? Gone.
There’s something I’ve been carrying lately. Something I wish I could just dump out on someone’s lap and say, “Please help me hold this.” But it’s heavy, and complicated, and wrapped up in layers I don’t even fully understand. And every time I think, maybe I can tell them, I freeze. Because they’ve made it pretty clear—they’re not that person for me anymore. Or maybe I’m not that person for them.
And it makes me feel so small. Like maybe I asked for too much. Like maybe I was too emotional, too dependent, too open. Like maybe I ruined it by caring too hard. And now I’m stuck in this weird space where I’m both craving comfort and convincing myself I don’t deserve it.
I wonder if they’d even care if I told them what I’m feeling. If I said, “Hey, I’m not okay,” would they just send a one-word reply and move on? Would it even matter to them that I’m drowning in this silence? Or would they just say “I’m sorry” and go back to whatever it is they care about now?
It hurts, you know. It hurts to have something big inside you and no one to say it to. Especially when the one person you used to trust with everything now feels like the last person you’d even try.
-S
Part I: The Distance I Can’t Measure
I don’t know when things started to change. There wasn’t some big fight, or some dramatic ending. It was quiet. Almost too quiet. Like I blinked and suddenly we weren’t… us anymore. And I don’t even know what “us” means right now. I still talk to them. Technically. The replies come, but they don’t feel like them. It’s like reading a text from a stranger who borrowed their name. Dry. Distant. Like they’re just checking a box, or replying out of habit, not heart.
It’s weird because I still care. I still look at the screen hoping maybe today’s the day they’ll actually say something real. Or ask how I am and mean it. Or remember how I always overthink things and say something to calm me down. But lately, nothing. They give me nothing. And I feel dumb for holding onto this silence, trying to pretend it’s just a phase. Like maybe they’re busy. Or tired. Or dealing with something they’re not saying. But then again… why am I always the one wondering? Why am I the only one noticing the weight of everything that’s missing?
I hate this. I hate how much I think about it, how much I re-read our past conversations just to feel close to something that’s clearly slipping away. I try not to be clingy, not to overstep, but damn—it hurts. It hurts to care this much about someone who barely reaches back. I never wanted a perfect friendship. I just wanted real. And I thought we had that. I really did. But now it just feels like I’m chasing a ghost of what we used to be. And the worst part? They don’t even seem to notice. Or maybe they do, and they just don’t care.
-S