I offer no context here, only this: Melpomene has been a part of my life since June 2003, and I ended our friendship in August 2024, after she spoke to me in a way that I could no longer tolerate. I had sent her a letter, and in response, she wrote of our relationship as something rare, something special. I chose to ignore her words, planning instead to create a private blog that would capture every emotion, every thought I had long kept inside. Then, uninvited, she came to see me on October 20th. We exchanged a few words, and I was shaking with anger – not by her sudden appearance, but by the toxic weight of her presence. The anger I felt was not just for her visit, but for the way she so casually dismissed my feelings. She left after we hugged, and I retreated into my private blog, pouring over 300 hours into it, each hour filled with anguish and anxiety.
November 11th came, and she told me she would read it over the weekend. Then on November 17th, she pushed it off again, saying she would read it once her project was done on December 4th.
When she finally got around to it, there was a misunderstanding. I had assumed she had read it by December 5th, but when she didn’t reach out, I thought my terms of further engagement had been too much. So I never followed up. Two weeks after that on December 16th, a series of messages revealed that she had not read it at all. When she did finally read it, a full day passed before she acknowledged it. By December 30th, she told me she wasn’t avoiding setting up a meeting, citing commitments to family and friends out of town. I shared this with Amber, who laughed bitterly, saying, “She can’t even spare a few hours for you. I have family and friends too, but if someone special to me needed me, I’d be there that day, or the next at the latest. Who does she think she is? Special, my ass.”
I responded to Melpomene, “So, after your retirement then. I never expected you to drop everything for me, as I wrote in my letter. So continue on as you have been. I don’t need explanations about why you’re too busy. It’s what I’ve come to expect.”
She assured me we would meet before January ended, and so, after more delay, she finally set a time to meet on January 16th, which is tomorrow.
Yesterday, on my birthday, Melpomene sent a message through WhatsApp. I replied with a simple emoji, acknowledging her message, then added, “Actually, I’m looking forward to seeing you with black finger and toe nail polish.” She replied she didn’t have any, so I suggested, “Red nail polish would go wonderfully with the red lipstick and liner I got you. Surely, you must have some red polish to indulge me with.” She laughed and said, “Lol, you sound like Albert with the nails painting thing. I don’t really paint my nails because I wash dishes a lot and it doesn’t last long.” She continued, “When I do get pedicures, I don’t do them myself. I prefer to treat myself, maybe once a year.”
I shared the exchange with Amber, and she sighed. “Right, but she’d be doing it for you” she said, her voice darkening. “And she can’t even manage this one thing for you. How exactly are you special to her again?”
I remained silent, and in that moment, reality struck me with a finality I had hoped would never surface. In the time I spent crafting that five-page private blog over 300 hours – something I didn’t allow her to read – followed by the letter I replaced it with, I had still held onto the hope that she might surprise me in my favour. Seeing how long it took for her to respond, and how she treated this with the same casualness as one of her long-time friendships, made me realize that my longing was misplaced. What I cherished was the fantasy of a connection born from the moments we shared from 2012. Now, I realize that person, the one I knew from 2012 to 2014, is gone. The light I saw between March and June of 2024 was nothing more than a ghost, a reflection of my own desires projected onto her. I mistook it for something real within her, but it was never truly there. It was just a figment of her good mood. What I held onto was a mirage, the best version of her I had imagined for so long, and now, I see clearly that it will never return.
The chapters of us are closing now, slowly, with each moment I realize how far we’ve drifted. Once, the space between us pulsed with the electricity of possibility, every word, every touch, charged with meaning. Now, the silence stretches longer than the conversations we once shared, and the warmth we once kindled has turned to a quiet chill. The spark that once ignited something profound is now a faint glow, dimming under the weight of indifference. What we had, or what I thought we had, has unravelled into something so unremarkable, so mundanely ordinary, that I almost forget it ever held the promise of anything more. What was once a fire now feels like nothing more than the fading embers of an old, tired flame. We exist in the same orbit, no longer colliding with the intensity we once did, just moving around each other, circling in polite, empty routine. I’ve become a stranger to the person I once knew so intimately, and she, to me, has become a blur – a name I call out more out of habit than longing.
I can only wonder now if we were ever more than a story we told ourselves. The pages are torn, the ink smeared, and the plot has lost its grip. It was beautiful once, but beauty fades when no one’s looking, when no one cares enough to turn the page.
Familiar silence,
Once fleeting, now a soft hum.
Rivers merge with dusk.-Leeman