It's hard to explain when something begins to change, because it never announces itself. There was no clear moment, no dramatic shift, no argument that marked the beginning of the end. Everything looked the same from the outside. But inside, something felt… different.
At first, I ignored it.
I told myself I was overthinking. That people get busy. That not every pause means something is wrong. But the pauses began to last a little longer than usual. Replies didn't come as easily. Conversations that once flowed without effort now felt like they needed careful handling.
You were still there.
But not in the same way.
I noticed the difference in small details. In how we no longer shared everything first with each other. In how laughter came, but didn't stay. In how silence, once comfortable, started to feel uncertain as if it needed explaining.
I tried to act normal. I tried to be the same version of myself I had always been with you. But something about that felt off too. Like I was reaching for a place that was slowly moving farther away.
There were moments when I wanted to ask you what had changed. To ask if I had done something wrong. To ask if you felt it too. But I didn't. Because asking would mean admitting that something fragile existed between us. And I wasn't ready for that truth.
So I stayed quiet.
And maybe you did too.
Distance doesn't always arrive as absence. Sometimes it arrives as hesitation. As choosing words more carefully. As stopping yourself from saying what you really feel because you don't know how it will be received.
I think that's when I first felt afraid. Not of losing you completely but of losing what we were while still standing right beside each other.
We didn't talk about it. We continued the routine, but something underneath it had shifted. And once you notice that shift, you can't unsee it.
I didn't know then how important it was to speak before silence became permanent.
I only knew that something was slipping through my fingers, and I didn't know how to hold on without breaking it.