I Lost Them While They Were Still Alive

They didn't die on my hands. I lost them to silence.

There was no funeral, no final farewell, and no significant occurrence to signal to me that this was the end. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and conversations became memories that I thought I could revisit at any time. I was swamped. Busy chasing stability. occupied with trying to get "better." Busy convincing myself that there would always be time later.

The future never came. They were still alive when I stopped calling. When I didn't respond to the messages, I was still breathing. Still hoping, I realize now, when I chose comfort over connection.

Pain does not always strike in a loud way. Sometimes it sits quietly, waiting for the day you finally stop running.

I experienced that day on a typical evening. There was no rain. No sad music. Just a moment when I reached for my phone and realized I no longer knew what I would say.

How do you start a conversation after months of absence?

"I was afraid" is not what you say. You don’t admit, “I didn’t know how to show up when you needed me.”

You don’t confess, “I thought time would forgive me.”

So you say nothing.

People leave our lives in that way—not because love ends, but because courage does. To relieve my guilt, I told myself stories. “They understand.”

“They know I care.”

"Someday I'll explain everything." But understanding fades when effort disappears. When care is not shown, it disappears. Furthermore, explanations lose their value when presented too late. The lesson hit me slowly, then all at once.

Love is not proven by intention.

It is demonstrated by its presence. You can be nice and hurt people at the same time. You can love deeply and still abandon quietly. Good intentions don’t undo absence.

The grief of losing someone who is still alive is something that no one can prepare you for. There’s no closure. No permission to mourn openly. merely the haunting realization that neglect rather than hatred caused the bridge to burn. I learned something uncomfortable about myself in that silence.

I was afraid of emotional responsibility.

Vulnerability is required to be present. It expects you to arrive imperfect, uncertain, and occasionally empty-handed. Avoidance feels safer. Distance feels controlled. Silence feels easier—until it doesn’t.

The connection had changed by the time I had the courage to reach out. Polite replies replaced warmth. Shared laughter was replaced by short sentences. Although it was no longer open, the door had not been slammed shut. And that was my consequence to carry.

However, despite my regret, I discovered this hope: Awareness changes behavior.

That chapter cannot be rewritten, but I refuse to repeat it. Now, when I think of someone, I reach out. I speak when I feel misunderstood. I keep in mind the price of silence whenever fear urges me to remain silent. I’ve learned that love requires maintenance, not just memories. that relationships do not depend solely on history. That today's presence is more important than promises for tomorrow. This is your sign if you're reading this and thinking of someone you've been meaning to call. Tomorrow, not. Not when things get slower. Now.

Send the message. Make the call. Say the awkward thing. Don't show up perfectly. because I would never wish on anyone the pain of losing someone while they are still alive. A life-altering lesson comes from realizing too late that love necessitated action rather than intention. Hope doesn’t come from fixing the past.

It results from making different choices now. And sometimes, the first step toward making that choice is a single, brave hello.