I always convince myself that I was the one who got away from people’s lives. Partly because it’s true. But mostly because I leave before I know they can hurt me. Over the years, I’ve cut ties with several friendships. The ones that shaped my school life. The ones that felt like they’d last forever. Keeping aside the conflicts we had, I always felt that I didn’t have the mental capacity to keep showing up. I’d get overwhelmed, even when no one asked too much. So I left. Quietly. Gradually. Sometimes completely. And maybe they never noticed. Maybe they moved on with lighter hearts than mine. But I still think about them. The way we laughed until we couldn’t breathe. The way they believed in me when I barely believed in myself. I like to imagine they miss me. Not because I want to feel important. But because I want to believe I mattered. I tell myself I was the one who got away. But the truth is, I’m the one who walked away. And that’s a very different kind of ache.
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