Mid-Sentence Goodbyes

I have two—maybe three—beautiful friends who stay with me.
Not in person. From a distance.

This is about emotional abandonment in adult friendships—the kind that doesn’t explode, but quietly withdraws.

The in-person part is complicated. Geography, timing, lives that don’t line up neatly.

There are those who can’t stay in person because of their own limits, but they never use mine against me.
They leave honestly. Without weaponizing my vulnerability.

That kind of friendship holds dignity, even in absence.

And then there is the third kind.

The ones who cry and laugh with you.
Who promise presence casually, like sunsets you assume will always return.
Who know your silences, your moods, your unspoken language.

And then they vanish.

Mid-Sentence Goodbyes

No rupture you can point to.
No fight worth narrating.
Just a sudden migration into a parallel universe where your absence is convenient.

Adulthood becomes their defence:
“What do you want from me?”
“Are you done?”

Questions that aren’t questions.
Exits disguised as boundaries.

We like to pretend betrayal has to be dramatic to count—affairs, lies, exposés.

But emotional abandonment in adult friendships rarely announces itself.
It withdraws quietly, leaving you to question your own need for care.

It can look like: Promises evaporating, Shared history being archived, Intimacy allowed only until it asks something back.

That kind of abandonment doesn’t just hurt the present-you.
It hits old places.
Where trust was learned through instability.
Where love came with conditions you couldn’t read in advance.

Trauma, Guilt, and the Thumbs-Up

So the body does what it knows:
You apologise.
You soften.
You take responsibility for ruptures you didn’t cause.

Sometimes all you get back is a 👍

A reaction instead of a response.
Closure outsourced to an emoji.

That’s not communication.
That’s emotional evasion.

Blogging After the Hiatus

I didn’t write for months.
Not because I had nothing to say,
but because opening the laptop felt like another kind of pressure, another low hit.

Now I am writing again—slowly, honestly.

Some people can sit with pain.
Some will love deeply until depth demands accountability.

You were not asking for too much.
You were asking the wrong people to stay present in discomfort.