The Distance Between Us

We were as close as sisters once,

our lives flowing together like rivers

merging at a confluence.

We raised our children side by side,

sharing the current of our days.

In the beginning, we were inseparable.

Our college days, you were mourning,

and I was there—

a safe space, an ear to bend,

a shoulder to cry on.

We partied and played together,

balancing the weight of life

with laughter and late nights.

The first time I moved away,

I had no choice.

He had a new job, and I was pregnant.

I had to leave—

away from my friends, my family.

You said a call cost too much.

No unlimited plans, no quick texts.

It was a different time—

but it wasn’t the calls that cost us in the end.

When I came back home

to set down my roots,

our lives flowed together again,

two rivers meeting after time apart—

or so I thought.

We walked and talked,

spent hours together,

sharing everything, or so it seemed.

We shared the load, or so I thought.

"You take the boys," you'd say,

"and I'll take the girls."

But a lot of the time,

I ended up with all four.

We listened to each other vent—or so I thought.

But when I spoke sometimes,

your eyes glazed over,

your attention wandered—

like still water, unmoved,

untouched by the words

I poured into it.

The times I watched your dog, it was no question—

I was happy to help.

But the one time I asked you to do the same,

you called me mid-vacation

to say you couldn’t do it anymore.

(a bitter laugh escapes me)

I didn’t see it then,

the imbalance hidden beneath the surface.

I thought we leaned on each other equally.

But the weight of your needs

grew heavier than I could hold,

and mine were left untouched.

I would be drained after our time together—

caught in a whirlpool,

pulled under by your endless demands,

gasping for air,

unable to break free.

When I moved away,

it felt like breaking the surface,

gasping for air after being dragged under.

I needed to reclaim the parts of me

that had been smothered—

by family, by the confines of a dead-end road,

and by the growing distance between us.

I needed freedom, space to think,

to be somewhere I could feel alive again,

not suffocated by expectations

or ignored by the people I thought cared for me.

I never expected you to mourn me as if I had died.

I have been here all along.

I called, again and again,

leaving messages that went unanswered.

If you finally replied, it was a text.

No warmth, no effort to connect—

just words on a screen.

“Oh, sorry, I was making dinner.

I’ll call you tomorrow.”

But tomorrow never came.

I waited like a fool—

each unanswered call

ripped at my heart.

I wanted to share with you.

But the interest is no longer there.

I convinced myself

that each time would be different.

But as the weeks, months,

and years went by,

I came to see the truth:

no one is that busy.

You make time for the people

you want in your life.

I tried, but relationships

are a two-way street.

The silence grew louder,

the distance between us stretched.

Now I too was being lumped in with the dead,

no longer a part of your world.

A text, a call—

it wouldn’t have taken much.

Was I asking for too much?

Is this what they call being ghosted—

a slow erasure,

something being done to me?

I'm very much alive

and feel your icy chill.

I'm very real,

but obviously no longer worth your time.

And yet, I tried.

I tried for years to hold us together,

to reach across the distance.

You arrived at my door,

your emotions spilling over,

looking for comfort,

for someone to absorb your pain.

I was the one who soaked it all up and

picked up the shards left in your wake.

But when my world fell apart,

when I told you my truths,

I thought I was speaking to an ally.

I thought my pleas were being heard.

But no, you weren’t listening—

you were lizzening:

not completely hearing what I said

and never truly believing it.

When my children’s father died,

all the things I said would happen did.

You were shocked.

Did you really think I wasn’t telling the truth?

That broke something in me.

I thought that time would be our friend,

not our enemy.

But as the years ticked by,

the distance only deepened.

When I found love again,

after years of being alone,

you couldn’t stand it.

You resented the time I needed for him,

as if my joy were a betrayal.

When I told you I was moving,

you told me you thought we’d grow old together.

I had thought so too. I had hoped so.

Now, all that’s left between us

is a shell of what we once had:

a hollow exchange of birthday wishes,

polite words on holidays.

Every lover, every friend,

asked me why I kept trying.

And I had no answer they would understand.

I only wanted a friend.

No one made me cry the way you did,

because no one else held

the space you once held in my life.

You were my chosen sister.

We shared 40 years of memories—

a lifetime of laughter, tears,

and everything in between.

At this age, it’s hard to find friends like that,

even harder still to lose them.

But I carry those moments with me,

and I no longer carry the weight.

I’ve found a sense of peace,

not in endings, but in acceptance.

In knowing that life is not stagnant,

but ever-changing,

a river that flows, not a stone that sits.

And I’m grateful—

grateful for the people who grow with me,

for those who remain present,

and for the lessons of those who do not.