The Kind of Goodbye That Doesn’t Even Flinch

(How friendships die without screaming)

I hate losing a friend.
Not because it’s tragic.
But because it lingers.
Quiet.
Stupid.
Heavy in places people can’t see.

Especially when we were close.
Especially when I realize

You didn’t say goodbye.
You didn’t say anything.
Just silence,
as if I’d been muted, then forgotten.

I kept replaying it.
Was I too busy?
Too cold?
Too much of a storm to sit beside?
Did you outgrow me?
Or did I just go quiet long enough
for you to stop noticing?

I know I don’t say much.
But I did care.
God, I cared.

Even when I didn’t know how to show it right.
Even when my version of “I’m here for you” was sarcastic comfort and terrible timing.

When you were happy, it gave me proof that life had meaning.
When you were broken, I let you break on me.

I stayed. I listened.

Not because I knew what to say. But because silence hurts less when someone else is holding it with you.

Now you're gone.
No explanation.
No slow fade.
Just air.

And I don’t know if I’m supposed to reach out
or take the hint and shut up.

But the way you ghosted me?
It felt like a punishment I never understood.

Not even a fake “I’m fine.”
Not even a lie to let me down soft.

Just stories with new people.
Photos with laughter I’m not part of.
Memories rewritten without me.

I don’t want to be the villain.
I don’t want to play victim either.
I just want to understand why it hurts this much, when all I did was try.

Don’t do that.
Don’t pretend I was never there.
Don’t layer someone else’s smile over mine like I never mattered.

I don’t want to be the villain in your rewrite.
I don’t want to be the victim either.
I just want to understand how it’s possible to miss someone
you didn’t even say goodbye to.

If I was a villain in your world, please say it.
If I was too much, I’ll disappear cleaner next time.
But don’t frame it like I let go.
Because I didn’t.

I’m still here.
Holding something I can’t name.
Something that aches on birthdays,
in old photos,
in the silence between us.

If this is what growing up feels like...
if this is how friendships end when no one admits they’re ending...

Then I wish I could opt out.

I stopped somewhere in junior high.
Back when my dreams
still felt like they belonged to me.
But none of them came true.
And somewhere in that disappointment,
I decided:

Maybe it’s better not to dream at all.

So I walked.
Not toward anything, just away.
I kept moving, chasing chances
because they were there.
Not because I wanted them.

And somehow,
I got good at this.
Good at pretending movement means direction.

Even now,
I don’t have a dream.
I don’t know where I’m going.
And every time someone talks about their dreams,
I feel the silence crawl a little louder in me.

What have I gained?
Flexibility.
Adaptability.
Survival.

Is it wrong not to dream?
Is it wrong to dream?

Good or bad,
those are words society defines.

But if society decides I’m bad,
what then?
What happens
if I stop listening to the world
and start listening to myself?

Would that make everything I’ve done
meaningless...
or finally mine?

-Ikkel Y-

I’m writing this because I’m lost inside my own outline.

They’ll name it despair.

Not as theater, just a thin weather laid over the day.

The wound obliges with cleaner definitions.

Future-me will reread this, polished and annoyingly correct, 

and ask again if a “happy life” exists.

Quit hoarding pain like currency. It never buys what you need.

Test for lightness, not salvation: