Not everyone who walks with you for years plans to walk with you forever.
It all started with having one of those deep conversations with my bestie, hearing her voice over the WhatsApp voice note : the kind that starts as a joke and ends with you staring at the ceiling like you just unlocked some tragic next level nirvana.
She wasn’t joking per say, but she was contemplating on some deep thoughts, and we all know with Venting Cloud always on my mind, a thought cloud just hovered above me with darkness and dampness all put together ready for a downpour . She said something that stuck with me.
“In this short life, we spend so much time not talking to people, holding jealousy, carrying anger and hatred… for what?”
And honestly?
For what though?
We act like life comes with a “continue?” screen. Like we can afford to block people emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and still expect a reunion episode later. Spoiler alert: life does not do season finales properly.
We stop talking to people over misunderstandings that could’ve been solved with a 10-minute conversation; but instead, we choose a 10-year silent war. Olympic-level grudge holding. Gold medal in ego preservation.
And the jealousy? Oh, the jealousy.
We see someone doing well and instead of thinking “good for them,” our brain goes:
“Interesting… but why not me?” As if life personally skipped us on purpose.
We carry anger like it’s a personality trait. Hatred like it’s some family heirloom passed down through generations.
And meanwhile, life is over here like:
“Hey bestie, just a reminder ….you’re just a mere mortal.”
Death doesn’t care who was right.
It doesn’t check who deserved an apology.
It doesn’t wait for you to unblock someone.
Imagine reaching the end and realizing:
You wasted years being mad.
Years not speaking.
Years proving a point to people who aren’t even thinking about the argument anymore.
All for what?
Pride? Ego? Temporary satisfaction?
The funniest – and the saddest – part is that we’re all walking around feeling wounded, pretending we’re fine, while quietly wishing someone would just understand us without us having to say anything.
I have noticed there’s a strange modern talent people have now mastered.
You call them, because someone passed away, and also because you’re doing the human thing.
Because condolences aren’t supposed to always be just a text with a reaction emoji.
And they answer with…
“Hmm.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure”
One word.
Like grief is a customer service ticket they’re trying to close quickly.
And I sit there thinking to myself
Why wouldn’t you engage?
Why wouldn’t you ask anything back?
When I ask about your kid, why wouldn’t you ask about mine?
Is curiosity expensive now?
Did empathy get rationed and nobody told me?
It’s not even about needing sympathy.
It’s about recognition.
About being seen as more than a background character in your life.
What hurts more is when this silence comes from people who weren’t just friends – but history.
People you grew up with.
People you lived with.
People who knew your childhood, your family, your messy years, your becoming.
How do you turn your back on that?
How do you slowly distance yourself from someone who shared your floor space, your secrets, your growing pains and all without even a reason?
No argument.
No fallout.
No explanation.
Just distance.
And I keep asking myself – for what?
Did I miss a memo?
Did I fail a test I didn’t know I was taking?
Or did I simply outgrow the version of me that was convenient to you?
But it doesn’t stop there.
What’s more unsettling is watching people slowly influence the spaces around them like isolating their partners, their parents, even their children; by quietly deciding who gets access and who doesn’t.
You stop engaging with someone you “don’t like,” and somehow everyone around you follows suit.
Not because they have a reason. But because it’s easier to comply than to question.
Respect, apparently, now means silence.
But real respect is choosing connection despite discomfort. Not erasing people from rooms they once belonged in.
Then there’s this other strange behaviour.
Some people speak to you like you are their entire world when you meet.
Warm. Animated. Full of stories and laughter.
But the moment you leave the house, or once the meet-and-greet ends,
you become strangers again.
No follow-up.
No check-in.
No continuity.
It’s like relationships only exist in physical proximity now.
Out of sight, out of mind, out of heart.
Growing up, I knew my distant aunts and uncles like they were grandparents or parents.
Meals were shared.
Stories repeated.
Presence was consistent.
Now?
It’s lucky if my child’s uncle or aunt even spends a single meal with them.
Cousins don’t recognize cousins.
Names are forgotten.
Faces are “reminded.”
And it’s ironic to me, because I feel when you grew up with your cousins; you know what closeness feels like.
So why doesn’t it continue?
Because nobody takes relationships seriously anymore.
They’re just background noise; something playing softly until it’s eventually muted.
Relationships don’t sustain themselves on nostalgia.
Someone has to show up. Closeness doesn’t survive on memory alone.
It needs effort.
Time.
And yes, we also need partners who are willing to invest instead of distance.
Especially when it comes to those missed moments.
Missed birthdays.
Missed weddings.
Missed milestones.
Sometimes people take offense.
Sometimes they throw shade.
Sometimes they don’t say anything at all, but the silence is loud.
And often the excuse is the same:
“Life got in the way.”
But life always gets in the way.
The difference is, some people make time anyway. Even if they can’t make it, their partners attend on their behalf. They make it count.
They show up tired, busy, imperfect – but still present.
Those surprise meet-ups we grew up with?
The unplanned visits?
The “I was in the area so I thought I’d stop by”? Historical MEMORIES!
My husband once flew 26 hrs to attend a 3 hr wedding as a surprise and flew back the next day for another 17 hours. Who does that?
It’s wasn’t even his best mate, it wasn’t even his own brother, but he wanted to be there for the whole family, and that mattered to him and his partner aka me, I made it happen too. I also flew and made my own arrangements so this meet and greet could be more sweet.
But other times? I have failed miserably when I booked a solo trip, in the hopes to be there for my brother’s family function. But things took a horrid turn with restlessness in the Middle East threatening my trip and my return journey and suddenly it was a gamble to do the right thing but to also be safe. It reminded me how much I would have loved to just wing it if I didn’t have my own family or a career to worry about, but somehow everyone almost the whole world were able to make it and I felt sad that I couldn’t. It’s not easy thing being an adult, is it?
Even when it comes to friendships.
That’s a whole different level of disappointment.
But that’s for another day’s post.
For now, this is just me wondering –
how we all became so comfortable letting people fade
and calling it adulthood.
For what?
It’s wild how adulthood teaches you this lesson:
Not everyone who walks with you for years plans to walk with you forever.
Some people don’t leave with drama.
They leave with indifference.
And somehow that hurts more.
Because indifference says:
“I could’ve asked about your kid. I just didn’t care enough to.”
So now I’m learning although slowly but reluctantly that not everyone deserves the same access to me that they once had.
That childhood bonds don’t guarantee adult loyalty.
That shared memories don’t obligate present-day effort.
And maybe that’s the real grief we don’t talk about.
Not death.
But the quiet loss of people who are still alive
Just no longer showing up.
For what? Only they know.
Life is short.
Painfully short.
Yet we act like we’ve got sequels lined up.
Like there’s always another birthday we’ll attend.
Another wedding we’ll make it to.
Another visit we’ll plan someday.
We postpone conversations.
Delay forgiveness.
Withhold effort.
And assume time will wait patiently for us to feel ready.
But death doesn’t wait.
It doesn’t care who stopped talking to whom.
It doesn’t pause to ask why cousins became strangers, why parents were influenced into silence, why friendships faded without closure.
It simply arrives.
And suddenly all those missed calls, missed meals, missed moments become permanent.
What hurts the most isn’t just the loss of people.
It’s the realization that so much distance was unnecessary.
That so much silence was optional.
That we could’ve chosen differently.
Sometimes even while blogging through Venting Cloud, I would think what’s the point of all this? But I know how those odd thoughts need somewhere to land before they turn into resentment. Because not all grief comes from death, some of it comes from watching relationships slowly disappear,
while everyone is still alive.
I know with Venting Cloud existing, the grief will pass, this yearning and sense of longing will pass. This space isn’t about blame.
It’s about reflection.
Maybe this is the real question we should be asking ourselves:
If today were the last chapter, would we be proud of how we showed up for the people who mattered?
Because this life
this one fragile, unpredictable, unfinished draft
was never meant to be lived like a rehearsal.
There are no sequels.
