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