𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓍 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇

Losing friendships is hard. And they're even harder on those days when it feels as if you're on unfamiliar ground,  tolerated and not accepted,

Those silent, lonely nights, my screen an unfrequented shore,

The memories surrounding you, the little things we used to share, the things we saw eye to eye.

Losing a friendship is never easy, especially when they're the phantom limb of my social life.

 And having to swallow my pride for the greater good.

People question, "Why don't you guys sit together anymore?" and having to prevaricate, such as,

"I couldn't find any seats" for the sake of a quiet room, for the sake of our living ghosts. For the sake of a quiet execution.

Losing friendships is one of those heartbreaks that no one gives a script for, it can shake your sense of safety just as deeply as a romantic split. Cause in the calm of solitude, those memories linger in the back of your mind. Lost but never forgotten. The pain of knowing our once shared stories are left for me to read alone, but for my own sanity, I shall always have the corner of your page dog eared because it once was one of my favorites

At this point, memories don't just linger, they haunt you, for what's been and what could've been.

And I'll watch your life in pictures, watch you achieve everything you once told me, even if I'm not there,

In the end, friendships shaped us into who we are now, and whoever we were to turn into,

You've done what you've done, I felt what I felt, and we are where we are, and it is what it is.

And if grief is all I have left of you, then so be it. And that is the paradox of missing a wounder.

- g