Why does the memory of a feeling stay longer than the feeling itself? Do you miss what was, or what could've been? Did me fade because me didn't care, or because we did too much? Do we forget people, or just forget how they made us feel? It's strange how people can drift even when nothing dramatic happens, no fight, no storm, nothing to point at and say "this is where we broke." It just happens quietly, like forgetting a dream the moment morning light touches it. The messages get slower, not from anger, just the spark not leaping the way it used to. Conversations that once felt endless now fizzle out softly, replaced with a gentle "yeah." You feel the shift, the laughter a little quieter, the curiosity a little dimmer. And it hurts in a blurry way, because there was no goodbye, no door closing, just two hearts slowly stepping back. Someone who once felt like a whole constellation becomes a distant star you can still see but can't reach. And you carry it quietly, Because how do you mourn something that didn't end, it just loosened, softened, faded. And somewhere inside, there's that whisper: "We could've been something, if the timing was kinder, if the effort was shared, if either of us had known how to stay." But all you're left with is the memory of how it once felt to be understood without trying and the echo of that warmth that now lives only in past tense.