It was one painful night,
When they ended everything all at once.
And he already let go of her;
the way she didn't try.
Not at all,
Not entirely.
Probably not.
He added her as a friend on social media.
She put him on her close friends list.
She did not delete his number;
The same way he didn't too.
She did not think of blocking him on her apps.
He didn't asked anyway.
They called it being "friends".
And "going back from the start".
The world knows they're moving on.
Their circle insisted too.
He already did.
She's trying anyway.
But neither of them really talked about it.
Or maybe they did.
She'd still send him videos that only he'd understand,
or memes that reminds her of his humor.
She'd sent messages when midnight strikes,
not because she misses him,
not entirely,
but because she remembers him softly.
He'd reply the next morning,
maybe after 16 hours if she's lucky.
He'd sent a short laugh and a little smiley.
And then she'd wonder a lot of things from there.
Sometimes they meet for dinner.
Or have lunch as a "friend".
But her hearts still skips a beat near him.
Sometimes it's even funnier,
when her heart is the loudest
because he remembers how she likes her hot chocolate—
no sugar and not too hot.
So she pretends she doesn't notice,
how her hands reaches for his,
like it used to do.
He told her he was over her.
And maybe he was.
She believed what he said.
She noticed the changes anyway.
She just didn't want to talk about it anymore.
She told herself she didn't feel the same way too.
And maybe she really didn't.
Until she caught herself checking his pictures on her snaps,
wondering if he's eating or not.
Until she heard a song she used to dedicate to him,
and had to skip it before it reached the chorus.
Until she almost wanted to call him,
just because for no actual reason.
They stopped fighting, not anymore.
They barely even talk at all.
There were no remaining emotinal baggage left to unpack,
no apologies left to speak of.
Just some memories— some good aching memories
where she slipped back to being his almost.
They were not lovers,
no, not at all.
They stopped being one
but did not ended up as strangers.
They look like an open-ended poem,
left unfinished by the poet
for no particular reason.
Days passed and even weeks,
and when she can't understand what she misses,
she'd scroll back to her notes
and see a folder she hides so well.
Some messages she wanted to send.
The ones she typed and then erased.
The ones that begs him to let her try for one more time.
The ones that asks him to come back.
The ones she never ever wanted him to read.
Maybe that's how it really ended—
not with distance,
but with closeness,
so close,
that it tangles the string that connects him with her.
It tangles and it knotted so bad,
So they ended up pushing each other away,
Like how it should have been from the start.