There are things that don’t really end. They just stop coming up.
A person you used to talk to every day becomes someone you occasionally think about. A place you once knew by heart becomes somewhere you haven’t been in months. A routine disappears so slowly that you don’t realize it was the last time until much later.
No big goodbye. No final scene. Just less.
Less texting. Less going there. Less time with people. Less talking about it. Less imagining that version of your life.
And then one day, you realize you don’t speak about it anymore.
I’ve been thinking about that lately.
Not in a particularly sad way. More in the way you think about an old photograph when you find it tucked inside a book. You remember exactly who you were when it was taken, even if you don’t feel like that person anymore.
There are people I miss.
There are people I don’t miss, but still remember greatly.
There are places I would love to see again, and places I wouldn’t go back to even if I could.
There are dreams I once spoke about like they were inevitable that I don’t think about much anymore. Dreams I’ve accomplished.
And there are versions of myself that I barely recognize. Versions that I am happy to have back.
I used to think moving on meant forgetting, maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe some things are allowed to become quiet without becoming meaningless.
We change our minds. We grow apart. We move houses, change jobs, make new friends, lose touch, pick up different habits. Sometimes we simply become someone who doesn’t fit into an old chapter anymore.
That’s life.
And still, every once in a while, something brings it back.
A song.
A street.
A smell.
A name.
A photograph.
Suddenly, you’re standing somewhere you haven’t been in months, in years, remembering a version of yourself who had no idea what was coming.
I think there’s something tender about that, not because we need to go back. But, because we can look back without needing to.
We can let something have mattered. We can miss someone without reopening the door. We can miss someone and want to. We can remember a dream without deciding we failed because we didn’t follow it. We can acknowledge that something was beautiful, even if it wasn’t meant to last.
Maybe growing up is partly learning that not every ending needs a conversation.
Some things just become part of the quiet.
And every now and then, we remember them.
Then we keep going.
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