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67
Journal of the bereaved one: The solace of Absence
<p>And all of a sudden, we weren't as close as we once were.</p><p>It happened so gradually that neither of us noticed. Not because the care had disappeared, nor because there had been some great argument, but because we were so alike in some ways and so different in others that our perspectives often collided, leaving us both quietly unsatisfied.</p><p>Slowly, we learned to be happy without each other's presence, finding an odd sort of solace in the silence of our absence. And the more comfortable we became apart, the farther we drifted from one another.</p><p>We still think of each other—at least, I know I do. In moments when I long for someone who understands my mind, my thoughts always wander back to that person. Yet I know they are only thoughts, because no matter how much I wish we could return to what we had, perhaps we were never meant to last.</p><p>Our friendship was born from the ruins of another relationship. It blossomed quickly, almost beautifully, and just like the relationship that gave it life, it moved too fast. Perhaps that was always its fate.</p><p>Sometimes the most beautiful things are also the most destructive. They arrive without warning, bloom brilliantly, and vanish just as quickly, leaving behind love that lingers, memories that refuse to fade, and wounds that take far longer to heal than the joy ever lasted.</p><p>Perhaps neither this friendship nor the one before it was ever meant to endure. Not because we were too different, but because we were different in the ways that mattered most.</p>
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