Some Losses Are Meant to Be Quiet

Some losses are meant to be quiet. Some friendships end off-screen. You retreat, you let silence settle around what’s ending, you start the work of metabolizing grief in private.

But they keep knocking on the door, asking for updates, for reassurance that you’re not too angry, that they’re still a good person. They say they want connection, but what they really want is absolution — and you’re the only one who can sign the paperwork.

You’re not allowed to be alone with your own ache. Every time you start to process it, they ping again. Like grief is a group project they’re auditing. Like your pain is still partly theirs to manage, to learn from, to turn into evidence of their growth.

They have a whole orbit of people who catch them when they fall. You have the echo of a friendship that won’t stay dead. That imbalance — that awful math — turns every message into another withdrawal from an account that’s already empty.

You don’t owe them peace just because they gave you the wound politely. Some stories need to end off-screen. You’re allowed to stop explaining why it hurts.