I’ve never really had a long-term person in my life, not beyond family. That realization carries its own quiet sting, because it means every bond outside those ties has been brief, temporary, fleeting. Over time, I’ve come to see that the people who do stay: resentment always seems to arrive with time.
It rarely begins loudly. Instead, it creeps in slowly—an irritation at a word, a silence that stretches too long, a need unmet. Then one day it sits there between us, undeniable, making the relationship feel heavier than before.
I once read that when resentment shows up, the best thing to do is confront it. Bring it into the light, name it, speak it aloud. But honesty feels dangerous. What if my words only plant resentment in them instead? What if my confession changes the way they see me forever? With family, the lines are blurrier still. Attachment, guilt, and distance overlap until I can’t tell if speaking up would heal or only fracture what’s left.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always ended up feeling more for the ones who don't stay long. The ones who slipped away before resentment had time to take root. Their leaving preserved them in memory—untouched, unspoiled, still soft to hold onto. They are remnants without closure, and maybe that’s what makes them linger longer. The ones who stayed became pressed beneath the weight of time, but the ones who got away remain preserved in something lighter.
Perhaps that’s the paradox I carry: I long for permanence, yet I am holding onto impermanence—not to the ones who stayed, but to the ones who left before staying could stain us both.
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