We Still Talk, But It’s Not the Same Anymore

We still talk.

We still exchange messages from time to time.

The tone is light, the words are familiar, the timing is late—but something about it feels... different.

There was a time when our conversations felt like home.

When silence between replies felt like a glitch in the universe.

When we could talk for hours and still find something new to say.

Now, it's more like checking in.

Routine. Mechanical.

A meme here. A “remember this?” there.

I reply with a smiley. You send a “lmao.”

But I notice that we’re both laughing a little less.

We didn’t fight.

There wasn’t some explosive moment that tore us apart.

No betrayal. No harsh words.

Just this slow, silent drift.

One day, we were sharing playlists.

The next, we were strangers who used to know each other really well.

And that’s the thing that gets me.

Not all endings come with closure.

Sometimes people disappear right in front of you, one message at a time.

I’ve tried to understand it.

Did we just grow apart?

Was I too distant? Were you too busy?

Did life simply get in the way, or did we stop choosing each other on purpose?

I don’t have the answers.

And maybe you don’t either.

But I do know this:

It hurts in a quiet way.

Not like a heartbreak, but like an echo—like something beautiful that once lived here now only exists in memory.

There are still days when I scroll back and reread our old conversations.

The way we used to share our fears.

The jokes that made no sense but somehow made us laugh for hours.

The little “good morning” texts. The deep 2am talks about dreams and regrets.

It’s all still there—just not here anymore.

We still talk, yes.

But we don’t connect.

And I’ve learned the difference.

Talking is just noise.

Connection is presence.

When you were present, I didn’t have to pretend.

I didn’t have to craft the perfect message.

I could send you a voice note of me ranting, or a blurry selfie of me crying—and you’d get it.

You’d be there.

Now, I hesitate.

I type. I delete. I overthink.

I wonder if what I’m about to say is “too much” for the version of you that exists today.

And that’s how I know.

You’re not the same.

And neither am I.

We still talk. But it’s not the same anymore.

I wish I could tell you all this.

I wish I could say, “Hey, I miss how we used to be.”

But I know what you’ll say: “Yeah, me too.”

And then nothing will change.

So instead, I write this.

A letter you’ll never read.

A truth you might never know.

A goodbye wrapped in lowercase texts and dry emojis.

I hope you’re doing okay.

I really do.

I hope you laugh with someone else the way we used to.

I hope you feel heard and safe and seen.

And maybe one day, we’ll talk again—not just with words, but with meaning.

But until then, I’ll hold on to the version of you I loved most.

The one who really knew me.

The one who listened.

The one who felt like home.