Some relationships don’t end with slammed doors or raised voices.
They end with silence.
And somehow, that silence can be louder than any argument.

That is how this ended.
Not with final words—but with distance that slowly learned how to live between us.

Once, conversation came easily. Life was shared freely. And then, quietly, it wasn’t. One day I noticed something unsettling: I was grieving someone who was still alive. I never imagined I would be standing in this place. I had watched others endure this kind of loss and thought, this will never be me. Until it was.

There is something uniquely painful about losing someone who knows your history. Someone who holds pieces of your past. Someone who stood beside you during both triumph and unraveling. There are shared memories, unspoken understandings, moments that shaped who you became. You know each other’s patterns. You recognize their triggers. You’ve seen the best and the worst—and loved anyway.

Or so you thought.

Because when a bond begins to break—not suddenly, but through neglect or unwillingness—you realize something unsettling: you knew them deeply, until you didn’t. There’s a moment when you can feel it in the air. A shift. A quiet knowing that something vital is slipping away, and no amount of effort can stop it.

That’s the beginning of the end.

I process life through words. Writing is how I feel, regulate, heal, and make peace. Some people are uncomfortable with that and don’t think I should blog about such personal things in my life. Some think personal truth should stay hidden. But I choose to share my story and stories, because somewhere, someone is living this same quiet heartbreak and wondering if they are alone. They are not.

I am not embarrassed by my story. I am proud of who I am and who I am becoming. Vulnerability is not weakness—it is clarity, it is true strength.

After enough time passes, silence stops feeling confusing. It becomes an answer. The drift has already happened. And whether it was all me, or not at all me, no longer matters. I have spent enough nights replaying conversations, dissecting moments, searching for explanations that may never come. Some things are not meant to be understood—only accepted.

I deserve a life filled with presence, not absence. I deserve to be in the company of those who choose me willingly, fully, and without hesitation. I know I matter. I know I am meaningful. I know I am a very special person to a lot of people. And I also know that I can be a mirror—one that not everyone wants to look into. I’m making peace with that.

I place this where it belongs now—in God’s hands. “Be still and know that I am God.” So I will be still. If this connection is meant to return, it will—without force, without chasing. And if not, then it was a gift for a season, exactly as it was meant to be.

So, for my own healing, I am letting go.

The hardest goodbyes are the ones you never realize you’re saying for the last time. I carry the laughter, the tears, the shared moments quietly with me. That is where they will live—untouched, intact.

There is no bitterness here. Only gratitude and release. I wish you happiness. I hope life is kind to you. I hope you find everything you’re searching for—even if our paths no longer run side by side.

Not everything that ends is a failure. Sometimes, it is simply a lesson completed.

So I choose peace over resentment. Growth over grasping. And love without attachment.

If God wills our paths to cross again, it will be so. But I cannot hold on any longer. That isn’t love—it’s self-abandonment. And I am done abandoning myself.

So this is goodbye.
Not spoken aloud.
Not dramatic.
Just true.

Know this: you mattered so incredibly much to me. You always will.
And now, I move forward.

With All My Love,
Fran xo

 

 

Author’s Note

This piece was written from a place of reflection, not accusation. It is not about assigning blame or reopening wounds—it is about honoring a lived experience and releasing what no longer serves me.

I write because it is how I process, heal, and make meaning of the quiet losses we don’t always talk about. Some stories arrive gently; others demand to be written. This one did the latter. Sharing it is not an act of disloyalty, but of honesty—with myself and with those who may recognize their own story in these words.

No names are used. No identities are exposed. What is shared here is not meant to harm, but to acknowledge a truth that many carry silently: that some connections fade not through conflict, but through absence. And that grief deserves language, even when closure never arrives.

If you are reading this and feel seen, know that you are not alone. And if this story stirs discomfort, I ask only that it be met with reflection rather than defense.

This is not written in bitterness. It is written in growth.
And it is offered in peace.

—Fran xo

Credit to: YouTube Cinderella – Don’t Know What You Got (Till It’s Gone)