Dearest Diary,
The day’s end, another moment to reflect.
It happens quietly.
They meet someone new — and just like that, the conversations thin out.
Texts taper.
Plans shift.
Invitations stop arriving.
I don’t blame them. I really don’t.
But I still notice.
Some part of me always notices.
It’s not that I expect to be prioritized. It’s more the way the shift happens — subtly, like a house settling after everyone’s left. One day, we’re talking about weekend plans or bad coffee or how exhausted work made us. The next, their replies feel half-finished. Delayed. Shorter. They start saying “we” instead of “I.” Then… silence.
And in that silence, something familiar stirs.
I’ve never learned how to say, “This makes me feel left behind.”
So instead, I pull back. Smoothly. Preemptively. Like it was my decision all along.
It’s not bitterness. It’s more like… bracing.
There’s a memory I return to more often than I realize.
Years ago, I watched a friend disappear into their new life — dinners with their partner’s friends, couple trips, double dates. I waited at first. Then I excused it. Then I disappeared, so they wouldn’t have to.
I told myself it was mature. That I was giving them space.
But I think I was just afraid to ask, “Is there still room for me here?”
Because history has taught me that people don’t always leave suddenly — sometimes they just fade. And when they do, it’s easier to already be at a distance.
There’s a line in Someone New by Hozier that lingers like a bruise:
“I fall in love just a little, oh a little bit, every day with someone new.”
It reminds me that people move forward without pause — with ease, sometimes — while others stay behind wondering how things changed so fast.
That lyric always made me think of romance. But lately, it feels more like a social truth.
Most people are tender when they’re aligned. But when paths diverge? We don’t know how to carry people forward. So we leave them without confrontation. We ghost in slow motion.
I do it too. I know that.
There’s a term in psychology called “protective disengagement.”
It’s when someone begins to emotionally disconnect before a relationship fully ruptures. Usually out of fear. Anticipated rejection. Perceived abandonment. It’s a defense mechanism — not cruelty (Pistole, 2010)¹.
So maybe I’m not cold.
Maybe I’m just preparing.
Preparing not to be missed.
Preparing to not miss.
I think I learned early on that saying “this hurts” doesn’t always protect you.
But vanishing first might.
Still, I wonder who I’d be if I didn’t have to keep doing that.
What if I had stayed? What if I had asked, instead of assuming?
What if there was a version of me that could say:
“I know things are different now. But I still want to be in your life, if there’s space.”
But that version of me — they’re not here yet.
Maybe someday.
For now, I just step back quietly and try not to be noticed doing it.
—
Yours in letters, always,
Pandora
P.S. If you’re reading this now, welcome to my late-night musings. If you’re catching up later, I’d love to hear your thoughts—leave a comment or connect with me on social!
Title inspired by the song “Someone New” by Hozier. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.
📚 Footnote (Study Reference)
Pistole, M. C. (2010). Attachment theory and research: Resurrection of the relational. Journal of Mental Health Counseling, 32(2), 93–101.
Study summary on relational distancing and emotional protection