Now I think it’s being met with indifference. When someone stops caring enough to fight, it’s like watching color drain from a painting. You still recognize the shapes, but the life is gone. And maybe that’s worse than anger — because anger at least means there’s still something left to lose.

I’m guilty of it too. I retreat. I go silent. I let the distance grow until it feels natural. It’s easier to let things fade than to admit they hurt. I tell myself it’s maturity, emotional control — but honestly, it’s fear. Fear of saying too much, needing too much, caring more than the other person does. 😶

There’s a strange dignity in silence, isn’t there? It looks strong from the outside. But inside, it’s chaos — every unsent message, every unsaid “please stay.” I wonder if we’ve all become too proud to beg for connection. Too afraid to look desperate.

And yet, I miss the version of me who used to fight for things. Who didn’t care how it looked. Who believed that love was worth noise and mess and vulnerability. Maybe she was naïve, but at least she was alive.