It's a strange feeling, missing someone who's right in front of you.
You were still in my life. Still reachable. Still present in ways that should have been comforting. But the closeness we once had the effortless connection, the warmth, the knowing glance wasn't there anymore. And that absence, though subtle, was sharper than I could have imagined.
I missed the way we used to talk without thinking, the way we laughed at things that didn't make sense to anyone else, the way our silences were comforting instead of heavy. I missed how simple it was to be together, how safe, how real. I missed us the version of us that existed before distance, before hesitation, before the small cracks started to show.
And yet, you were still there. Still smiling politely. Still asking about my day. Still trying, I think, to hold on. And that made the missing even harder. Because it wasn't complete loss. It wasn't a final goodbye. It was a limbo where the friendship existed, but not in the way I needed it to.
I wondered if you felt the same way. If you noticed the gap that had opened, or if you were pretending it wasn't there, just like I was. I wondered if we were both silently mourning something we couldn't put into words.
Sometimes, I would catch myself staring at your messages, wanting to text you about something small, something funny, something meaningless, just to feel normal again. But I hesitated. I remembered the careful politeness we had learned, the way every word was measured now. And so I stayed quiet.
Missing someone who's still there is heavy. It's not loud or dramatic. It doesn't have a clear start or end. It's a quiet ache that sits in your chest, reminding you of everything that was and everything that isn't.
And every time I thought about reaching out, I remembered the distance, the unsaid words, the subtle shifts that had changed everything.
I missed you.
But the person I missed didn't fully exist anymore.
And somehow, that was the hardest part of all.