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

We still talk.

Not often, but enough.

The messages still come in—“How have you been?” or “Did you see that thing we used to laugh about?”

There’s no bitterness in your tone. No harsh words. No outright distance.

But still… it’s not the same anymore.

I can’t even pinpoint when the shift happened. One day we were sharing everything—midnight thoughts, ridiculous memes, random confessions. And then slowly, silently, it faded into polite updates and awkward pauses.

You know, the kind where you read the message and wonder for a minute if replying even matters.

We used to talk like it was breathing. Natural. Effortless. Constant.

There were no schedules, no "I'll reply later"s.

Just you and me, riding the chaos of conversation, jokes turning into secrets, secrets turning into memories.

And now?

Now we talk like strangers who vaguely remember being close once. Like we’re playing a game of emotional catch, but neither of us wants to drop the ball—because that would make it real.

We’re both pretending we’re fine with this version of us.

I guess that’s what hurts the most.

That we’re still here—but not really.

We didn’t have a falling out.

No dramatic ending.

No final argument to justify this distance.

Instead, we drifted.

You met new people.

I grew quieter.

Life got in the way—and neither of us fought hard enough to hold on.

And yet, the door never fully closed.

You still message on my birthday. I still send you songs that remind me of us.

We still check in from time to time—like we’re afraid to be honest about the fact that we don’t fit in each other’s lives anymore.

But we don’t.

And that realization sits heavy.

Because you were the person I ran to when the world got too loud.

The one who knew what I meant even when I didn’t say it.

The one who stayed up with me just to make sure I fell asleep okay.

How do you lose that and pretend it’s normal?

How do you smile and text “I’m good” to someone who used to hear the pain behind your silence?

You still feel familiar.

But you’re not home anymore.

You’re the ghost of comfort.

The echo of what once felt like forever.

And maybe we’re both to blame.

Maybe we outgrew each other.

Maybe we needed different things.

Maybe timing was never on our side.

But it still hurts.

It hurts to look at your name on my phone and not feel the spark anymore.

To scroll past our old conversations and wonder how we got here.

To know that if I really needed someone—you wouldn’t be the first person I’d call. And I wouldn’t be yours.

That’s the kind of grief no one talks about.

The grief of fading friendships.

Of soft goodbyes that happen without a word.

Of still talking, but feeling like you’re speaking from opposite sides of a glass wall.

We didn’t break.

We just unraveled.

And part of me wishes we did have a messy ending.

Because then at least I’d have something to blame.

Something to point to and say, “That’s why we’re not close anymore.”

But instead, I’m left with half-conversations and half-smiles.

With “let’s catch up soon”s that never happen and “I miss you”s that feel too heavy to say out loud.

And yet—I still care.

I’ll always care.

Even if we’ve become shadows in each other’s stories.

Even if the warmth is gone and the closeness has cooled.

You were important to me.

Still are, in a way.

Even if we don’t talk the same.

Even if we’ve changed.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t disappear.

It just lives quieter, in the background.

It shows up in a song lyric, in a random memory, in the urge to text you when something reminds me of us.

And maybe that’s all we are now.

A quiet kind of love.

A once-in-a-lifetime bond turned occasional check-ins.

Not everything is meant to last forever.

But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.

We still talk.

But it’s not the same anymore.

And maybe… that’s okay.