We Grew Apart

We didn’t explode

No slammed doors, no movie-scene rain.

We just… thinned out,

Like tea you keep topping off with hot water

until it’s mostly warmth and habit.

﹁﹂

I noticed it in small places first:

Your laugh coming later,

My stories getting shorter,

The way we started saying “fine”

like it was a full meal.

﹁﹂

Your side of the closet looked tidy, almost proud.

Mine looked like weather

shirts half-hung, a sock missing,

everything mid-leave.

﹁﹂

We still held hands sometimes,

But it felt like holding onto a railing

after the stairs already ended.

Safe, yes.

Also pointless.

﹁﹂

On Sundays, the silence got confident.

It sat between us with clean elbows,

watching us chew,

watching us pretend the room wasn’t getting bigger.

﹁﹂

I wanted to blame someone

you, me, the past, the month of May

But honestly, we were both tired animals

trying to be gentle

while our bones asked for space.

﹁﹂

So we grew apart,

not as punishment,

more like plants in separate windows

reaching for the light they needed.

I still miss you, sometimes,

But I can breathe now,

And that scares me a little.