The Urge to Disappear

I don’t want to see them anymore.

Not because I’m angry. Not because anything happened. Just… because they’re leaving. And staying feels like letting it cut me open one slice at a time.

The kindness hurts now.
The small talk hurts.
The way they still laugh and toss me those little scraps of affection like nothing’s changing, that hurts most of all.

I told them the other day that I was grieving the friendship ending. I used the actual word: grieving. And it didn’t scare them off. They offered me a hug instead; arms open like a peace treaty I didn’t ask for but desperately needed.

Today, I found myself wondering why I just want to go. Just… be gone before the goodbye ever really lands. Get a head start on missing them. Rip the bandage off myself before it has the chance to stick.

It’s not that I want distance from them.
I want distance from the ache.

Because being close to someone who's slipping away is a very specific kind of hell. One that plays in slow motion. One where every familiar moment turns into a last, without telling you when it’s happening.

It’s like watching a sun set but being forced to narrate it while it burns your eyes.

And I know this part of me—the part that wants to disappear—is just trying to protect me. Trying to make the grief easier. Simpler. Cleaner.

But it’s not going to be.

So I’ll stay. For now.
Even if I look away more.
Even if I pull back a little.

And when the goodbye finally comes, I’ll let it hurt.
Because that’s what love does.
It teaches you how to stay soft, even when everything in you wants to run.

Because I already know—there won’t be a replacement.
No one else can step into those shoes; they won’t fit.
There won’t be another them for me, and they won’t find another me.
Some spaces in our lives are custom-made,
and when someone leaves, the shape they carved out stays empty.

But I do wish them all the best. I hope life brings them the greatest joy on their journey.
Godspeed, my dear friend. I will miss you.