Why did we stop talking?
How… how did it get like this?
Why… did we stop talking?
After a time… I stopped trying.
You… you… you were very tired to try.
No one did.
And… a friendship… that… no one acknowledged, but we acknowledged—
now doesn’t exist.
Exists… but…
I’m not the same person you talk to.
It was not love.
It was attachment to a person.
That laugh… that conversation… that gossip…
When a man starts to have that with someone,
he realizes there is something.
And that was not love.
Why… why did we stop talking?
Why did it get like this?
You talk to still… you… you laugh with still…
You gossip with still—
but the one you do all of this with is not me.
We don’t even face each other, face to face.
We just materialize.
We just see each other for less than one second and… look at our work.
Look at our work.
I try my best to hide it.
Even though some of my closest ones—
more close than her—
know what I think about that.
I really don’t like it.
Not a guilty piece, but that attachment kills me.
But the problem is…
I don’t see that on her face.
A friend of mine, a sister of mine, a best friend of mine—
we—
I labeled her that.
With the thought that if she wanted to be called that by name, why not.
But the problem started happening
when we both started to live in it.
The hangouts, the conversations,
were not for romantic intimacy.
They were the kind that touch your heart,
not in the way lovers do,
but the way friends do.
An attachment of a friend that I had gotten…
I just lost it.
I don’t know if it was the influence of my own ego,
or my own path.
I thought I was so deep into the path of my passion,
I forgot I had some friends to talk to,
to hold onto.
And now, when I come back from that place,
to my normal daily life,
to see my normal workplace,
I hate to see her.
Because she has new ones.
And it doesn’t feel new to her.
How me and she were—just the same—
but the people are different,
the conversations longer.
And I hate that.
And I hate that.
If she’s talking to someone,
why is it not me?
I’m not insecure…
maybe I’m insecure.
Maybe.
And maybe… it was her.
It was her fault.
But I stopped talking to her.
So I don’t know why she stopped talking to me.
Copyright © The bloody Pen | Year Posted 2025
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