The first missed text doesn’t feel like much. The second time they cancel plans doesn’t seem like a signal. But over time, these small moments accumulate, and one day you realize they’ve stopped calling, stopped reaching out. You don’t know when it happened exactly—just that it did.
It’s a strange thing, how people can disappear without making a sound. You can still see their name on your phone, hear their voice in your head, but in the space between you, there’s a silence that didn’t exist before. It's not an ending. It’s a slow, deliberate pulling away—one step at a time, until there’s a distance too great to bridge.
Some goodbyes don’t shout. They’re quiet, almost polite, like a friend leaving your life because they never really meant to stay. And when it’s over, it feels less like something’s ended, and more like something’s been gently erased.
The hardest part is that these goodbyes don’t leave us with closure. We don’t get to mark them with finality. Instead, we’re left to wonder when the shift happened, when the connection fractured, when we didn’t notice the change until it was already too late.
Sometimes the people we love simply fade away, and we never get the chance to say goodbye. We never realize how much we needed them to stay until they’re already gone. It's like holding a conversation with someone who isn't listening—until one day, you realize they never were.
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