You tire yourself out slowly. Not in one step, but in thousands of small ones. When you give in a little more every day. To yourself. When you push boundaries that you promised yourself you would never do. When you keep quiet to avoid conflict. When you smile even though you feel a tear in your throat.
The last time doesn't happen all at once. It comes slowly. It doesn't come as a decision, but as a realization.. Slowly seeping through tiny cracks, everyday silence, long evenings without a view. With years of disappointments that accumulate like dust.
With months of silence that screams louder than any argument. With weeks of convincing ourselves that maybe it's still possible... that maybe there's still hope in the darkness that surrounds us... ...that we haven't completely disappeared yet to each other from the heart.
It happens slowly.
It just lingers for the last time. In the air, between us, like something we both feel but don't say. Like an invisible mist we both see but pretend it's not there. Like a pain that becomes so mundane you barely recognize it anymore.
I was tired.. Tired to the core. From explanations that went unanswered, like letters sent to the wrong address. From hugs that had no meaning, that had become a habit, not a need. From watching you walk away, and you were already somewhere else, in a world you hadn't invited me to. As if you were looking through me, as if I had become invisible.
Your absence was worse than any departure.. Because you were here, but you weren't. Because I could reach for your hand, but not your heart. Because I could hear your voice, but not your thoughts. Being alone is one thing, but being lonely with someone you love is a special kind of hell.
I was there.
With a body that was still waiting for yours touchWith a heart that still hoped for a miracle, even though reason had long known the truth.
Everything I wanted to say to you, I've already told you a hundred times.. In a hundred ways. With words, with looks, with touches, with tears. And you – again and again – didn’t hear. Or you heard… and it didn’t move you. It’s like throwing pebbles into an abyss and waiting for an echo that never comes.
I didn't speak again that day.
I haven't convinced you anymore. I didn't ask you where you were anymore - because I knew. You were there, your body occupied the space, but your mind was somewhere else. But you were no longer with me. You were someone I sat next to, and yet I felt… alone. Like strangers sharing the space but no longer having anything in common.
I met, that I have become a habit for you. No longer a choice, no longer a desire, no longer a priority. Someone who is there. Who will always be there. Like a part of the apartment that you no longer notice. And you have stopped choosing. You are just there – next to me. Not with me. As if we are two people who live in parallel, but don't really see each other anymore.
And then… I stopped.
Not out of anger that seeks revenge. Not out of hatred that desires pain. Simply because I couldn't take it anymore.. Because there was too much emptiness between us that no hug could fill. Too much silence that no conversation could drown out. That silence in which a person falls apart – slowly, imperceptibly. The one where you are in the same space, but you are no longer present inside, just an external image of what you once were.
I left.
No drama. No words., which would only repeat what has already been said. Because I have already said everything, every request, every hope, every warning. Because you have already heard everything, like someone who does not want to hear the truth.
Last time I fought for us... That sometimes the greatest proof of love is not staying, but leaving - when you know that you are no longer the sun for the other, but the shadow.
