The Day She Blocked Me

We met at thirteen. Not by choice our last names were alphabetically next to each other, so we always ended up in the same group, the same projects, and eventually, the same lunch table.

By fifteen, she was my safe place.

She knew about the night I cried over my parents' fight. I knew about the first time she kissed someone and regretted it. We were each other's diary, memory box, and defense system. We didn't say "best friends." We didn't have to. Everyone just knew.

We had this unspoken ritual. Every heartbreak, every bad grade, every overthinking spiral - we'd send a voice note, then another, until one of us replied, "Want to talk outside?" And we would. For hours.

She was the kind of friend who'd memorize your coffee order and notice when your energy was off before you did.

Lately, her replies had gotten shorter. Her calls less frequent. I asked if everything was okay, and she'd brush it off:

> "Just busy."

"Stressed."

"You know how life gets."

And I believed her. Because that's what trust looks like.

Until one morning, I opened Instagram to tag her in a meme - and I couldn't find her.

I searched again.

Gone.

I checked TikTok. Blocked.

WhatsApp. Blocked.

Even Spotify, where we shared playlists. Gone.

I stared at the screen, blinking.

Was this a mistake?

A hack?

A joke?

But deep down, I knew.

She cut me off. Deliberately. Quietly. Entirely.

I scrolled through our last texts. Nothing angry. No fight. No passive-aggressive silence. Just the usual:

> "Let's catch up soon."

"Miss you."

How do you mourn someone who's still alive but has made it clear you're dead to them?

I didn't sleep for days.

Every memory hurt - not because it was bad, but because it was real. And I didn't understand how someone could walk away from something real without a word.

I never got the why. Still don't have it.

But I stopped waiting for closure.

Some people are in your life for a reason, a season? or to remind you that even the deepest bonds can break quietly.

I still think of her sometimes. I hope she's okay.

But I've made peace with the silence.

Because this story? It's mine now.

And I'm choosing to end it with grace.