The Fade

I realized today

it's been four months

since we texted,

and I realized

it the way you realize

something is already gone—

not when it happens,

but when you notice

the absence

has become

normal.

I saw you at the store

with other people,

and you didn't see me,

and I didn't call out,

because I understood,

watching your back,

watching you turn

toward them,

watching the way

you laughed

at something

they said,

that we weren't

ending,

we had already

ended.

There would be no conversation.

No final text.

No moment

where we both agreed

it was over.

It would just

fade,

the way things do

when no one's

maintaining them,

the way a path

disappears

when you stop

walking it,

the way a voice

becomes unrecognizable

when you haven't heard it

in a while.

You were happy

without me.

You were fully

alive

without me.

And I understood,

in that moment,

that I'd been

a temporary thing,

something that mattered

until it didn't,

something that could

disappear

into the background

of your life,

into the crowd

of people

who didn't

look back

when they walked away.

I left you there

with your new people,

let you

stay

in the moment

where you were

happy,

where I wasn't,

where you didn't

have to know

I'd seen you,

where the fade

could continue

uninterrupted,

where nothing

had to be said,

where the friendship

could die

without the mercy

of goodbye.