I think I'm starting to notice patterns. Maybe I've been ignoring them, or maybe I didn't want to see them for what they really are. But tonight, they feel too clear to push aside.
You're always busy when it comes to me. At least, that's how it feels. I wait for a spark of conversation, a question about my day, a sign that you miss me—but it never comes. Instead, I see you giving your time, your laughter, your energy to others. Four games with your coworkers. An unhurried scroll through TikTok. Cooking and eating without a rush. You had time for all of it. But not for me.
And maybe that's what stings most—it's not that you don't have time, it's that I don't see you choosing to spend it with me. The difference is so clear in my heart. Even when I'm busy, I still try. I still find ways to talk to you, to let you know I'm here, to respond with something more than just a placeholder. Because that's what love means to me: it's not about convenience, it's about effort.
But with you, the replies feel dry. Measured. Like you're meeting some invisible quota of attention, but your heart isn't really in it anymore. You send me reels, you forward things, but I don't hear your voice in them. Not really. They feel like distractions, not conversations.
And then I see how you come alive when you talk to others. The excitement in your voice, the way your energy shifts—it's like watching the sun break through clouds. But it's never for me anymore. With me, you're muted, flat, tired. With them, you're glowing.
It hurts to admit this. To even write it. But I can't ignore what's right in front of me: we're slowly drifting apart. Communication is the thread that holds two people together, and ours feels like it's fraying strand by strand. I've always believed that distance doesn't come all at once—it happens quietly, in the spaces where words should be but aren't.
And I feel it happening now.
I don't know if you notice it. I don't know if you even feel it. But I do. And tonight, it feels heavier than ever.