We Don’t Talk Anymore, But I Still Know Her Birthday by Heart

It’s strange how the mind holds on to things even when the heart is trying to let go.

I haven’t spoken to her in over two years. No texts. No calls. Not even a passive-aggressive like on a social media post. She’s just… gone. A ghost in my story. But every July 14th, without fail, my brain sends a silent reminder: It’s her birthday today.

And just like that, all the memories I’ve worked so hard to bury come flooding back.

I remember the first time I celebrated it with her. We were both 19, broke college students who thought cupcakes and cheap wine counted as fine dining. I had made her a playlist, burned onto a CD, and we danced to it barefoot in my tiny apartment. She laughed the whole time, off-beat and out-of-tune, but never out of joy.

That laugh—it’s still etched in my memory like a permanent watermark.

We were never just friends, but we also never made it official. It was a complicated, unspoken kind of love, full of lingering glances, late-night confessions, and holding hands under the table. We tiptoed around the truth for so long that when the silence finally swallowed us, it was almost a relief.

Almost.

The thing is, we were both too proud to say we needed each other. Or maybe too scared. So when life pulled us in opposite directions—new cities, new jobs, new people—we didn’t resist. We didn’t fight for each other.

We just… stopped talking.

I’ve replayed that last conversation more times than I can count. It wasn’t even a fight. No screaming, no slammed doors. Just a slow drift, like watching a boat untie itself from the dock and float away while you stand there, pretending it’s fine.

Pretending you didn’t want to swim after it.

I’ve thought about reaching out. Believe me, I have. But every time my fingers hover over her name, I remember that we’re strangers now. Strangers with a past, sure—but still strangers. I wouldn’t even know what to say.

“Hey, I still remember your birthday.”
“Hope you’re doing well.”
“I miss you.”

What’s the point of opening a door you’re not sure the other person wants to walk through?

Still, every July 14th, I think about what she might be doing. Is she celebrating with someone else now? Someone who brings her sunflowers because those were always her favorite? Someone who knows her laugh, her moods, the way she likes her coffee with too much cream and not enough sugar?

I hope so. I really do.

Because despite everything, I want her to be happy.

That’s the twisted beauty of love, isn’t it? Even when it’s over—even when it’s broken—you still root for the person. Quietly. From a distance.

Sometimes I wonder if she remembers my birthday too. Or if she deleted it from her calendar the moment we drifted apart. Maybe she has better boundaries than I do. Maybe she learned how to forget me.

I haven’t.

Not really.

You don’t forget people like her. You just learn how to carry them differently. Less like a wound, more like a faded scar. A reminder of something that once was—and in some strange way, always will be.

There’s a kind of love that doesn’t need maintenance to exist. It doesn’t grow, but it doesn’t die either. It just… lives quietly in the background, like a song you haven’t heard in years but still know all the words to when it plays.

That’s what she is to me now. A quiet song. A silent birthday reminder. A memory that still knocks on the door once a year, just to say, “Hey, remember when?”

And I do.

Every year, I do.


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If you've ever remembered the birthday of someone you no longer speak to, you're not alone. Some people leave our lives, but never our hearts. 💔


Thank you for reading this 🥰 .