Between You And Me

I can tell the difference now between an attachment wound and something real. I can name them. I can point to them. But one of them is louder, and when it pairs with what my eyes see, reason drowns. I watch the flame you used to have for me quiet down in real time. Not violently. Not cruelly. Just slowly, like a fire learning how to be something else. And I know that isn’t wrong. We’re all growing. We’re all becoming new versions. But knowing that doesn’t stop me from seeing the difference. You used to listen to my music without thinking about it. You’d watch the TikToks I sent, stay up with me, then wake up the next day and tell me about yours. I imagined you smiling when my name lit up your phone. Now I wonder if it’s a shrug. Or a sigh. Or nothing at all. You stopped doing the small things, the ones that made me feel loved. They were bare minimum. Maybe I took them for granted. Or maybe they mattered more than I knew because they made me feel chosen. I ask myself if I broke something. If this is my punishment. If I took too much, if I drained you when I used to give you energy instead. I hear your explanations. I believe them. I know your attention has shifted, that your energy goes elsewhere now. I understand your boundaries, cutting calls short to wind down, protecting your peace. I understand it. I really do. But when we haven’t called in a while, I want to hold on longer, the way we used to. And I hate myself for wanting that because I know what matters to you now, your games, your friends, the ways you decompress. It feels like I’m no longer woven into your mind as second nature. I’m a choice you have to think about. And maybe that’s just change. Maybe our needs and your habits don’t line up cleanly anymore. I’m happy you’re finding your footing on your own foundation. But I feel like a background character watching it happen. I get scared to ask to call more. I already assume you won’t have the energy, that you’d rather be with your friends. And I can’t be mad about that, that’s your peace now. So instead I grieve quietly what once was while teaching myself how to adapt. Sometimes I imagine that while we’re on call you’re already waiting for it to end, already leaning toward what comes next. Like I’m a pet you check on just enough to keep content. And it’s happening all around me, people drifting, energy shifting, so why wouldn’t you join in too? I fight the old behaviors that once kept me safe. If I shrink myself, I hurt. If I show up fully, I drown you and hurt anyway. And that’s what confuses me most, what I’m asking for now used to not be a big thing. So where did it go? I remind myself you’re adapting too. That you’re no longer the version I hold in my head. And I still love you, so deeply, so sincerely. I think the truth is simple and unbearable... I miss you. And the small things mattered to me more than I realized. I want to grab my past self by the shoulders and tell them to cherish every quiet moment before it disappears. Because now I watch you and others having a blast without me, doing things that once included me. How am I not supposed to feel something when the words don’t match the actions? How am I not supposed to envy when I hear my sister say her boyfriend calls her every night just to say goodnight, and I look at you afraid to ask, already knowing the answer. I’ve seen how good you can be. I’ve felt it in person. Sometimes I feel it online too, but it only exists inside the time we’re calling. I know what I need to work on. But I don’t know how to start when there’s nothing steady to hold onto. It feels like there’s a piece of paper between us, both of us tearing at the edges, no one ripping it completely. So I can’t open and say, “You hurt me.” Because then it feels like I’m the one tearing it just by speaking. I see your effort. I understand where you’re coming from. But I’m still hurting. I’ve changed too. I’m more aware now of what affects me, of what I want. And I’m terrified that asking for it will prove I’m too much. Is this just fear during an adjustment period? Am I stretching ghosts into monsters again because everything else feels like it’s crumbling? I miss you in ways you could never fully know. It’s not that the intensity isn’t mutual, that part doesn’t hurt. What hurts is feeling like I’m no longer something you reach for with excitement. Like I’m not shiny and new. Like I’m no longer something you play with. I keep telling myself it’s okay. I keep my arms open. I try to stay warm. But it’s hard when you’re full of joy elsewhere and I’m left on read, knowing there was a time you couldn’t wait to hear about my day. It feels wrong that just when a gap closed, another opened wider. Why would you want that? We’re uneven emotionally. Why would you want that weight? So I cry at night, wondering what’s happening around me, almost wishing you’d let go completely, not because I want it, but because the waiting hurts more. And I know that’s my mind talking. The root of it is simple... I miss you. I miss your flame. I don't want to survive on sparks. And I don’t know how to keep loving someone while learning how to live with who they’re becoming.