I Heard You — Just Too Late

Through Your Eyes

I thought we could become best friends.

Back then, everything between us felt light, effortless, and natural. We connected over the smallest things — songs, jokes, random conversations. I remember when we used to write lyrics of our favorite songs together, and how much we both liked Selena. It wasn’t just about music or common interests… it was something more subtle. You felt familiar, like someone I didn’t need to try hard around.

In the beginning, you made me feel seen. We had our rhythm — our own kind of language made up of sarcasm, nicknames, little inside jokes. We didn’t need plans or deep talks all the time. Just being around each other felt enough. It was nice. It was good.

But something shifted.
After 12th, life began to feel heavier, and somehow you carried that heaviness into our friendship. I don't know if it was the stress of growing up, or just changes happening in your world that I couldn’t fully understand — but slowly, I started noticing how much more intense things became. You started expecting more — more presence, more communication, more... effort, maybe?

It wasn’t wrong of you to want those things. But I think what hurt was how you started measuring our friendship through them.

I remember feeling confused when you'd get upset with me for small things. Like if I didn’t send a “good morning” text, or if I didn’t tell you every little thing about my day. To you, those were signs of care. To me, they felt forced — like I was ticking boxes instead of just being myself. I started to feel like I was failing, even when I wasn’t doing anything intentionally wrong.

And then came the arguments. They weren’t explosive, but they lingered. You'd try to make your point again and again, and I’d try to explain mine. But nothing really changed. The same patterns repeated, and each time I walked away feeling a little more misunderstood… a little more distant. I was trying — maybe not in the way you wanted me to — but I was trying.

Still, I want you to know: I valued what we had.
Our random talks, the silly moments, those aimless chats that lasted forever — they meant something to me. There’s no pretending that those weren’t real. And if I’m being honest, a part of me missed that even while we were still friends… when I could feel us slowly slipping away.

There were things I never told you. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to. Like how I sometimes felt emotionally cornered, like I had to be a version of myself that lived up to your standards. I wish I could’ve said it back then — “Don’t force things. Let them breathe.” But I didn’t. I kept quiet. And maybe that silence turned into distance.

I can’t pinpoint one moment when it all broke — but I do remember the feeling of slowly pulling away. You started getting upset over smaller and smaller things. And at some point, I just couldn’t keep giving explanations anymore. It started to drain me. Friendship should feel like support, not survival.

And yes, I was mad when it ended. I felt hurt. There were things you did that I didn’t understand — things that made me feel like I didn’t matter to you the way you once made me feel I did. But even through that frustration… I never stopped caring.

I don’t regret the friendship.
Not even a little.

Because even though it ended, it taught me a lot. I’ve grown as a person since then — not just because of what happened between us, but also because of everything else life threw at me. But you were a part of that growth. Our friendship helped shape parts of me that still exist today.

I don’t believe all friendships are meant to last forever. Some are just meant to be chapters — brief, bright, bittersweet. Maybe that’s what we were: a really important chapter. No more, no less.

And if I could say something to the old us?

I’d say: We were good friends.
Even if it didn’t last. Even if we didn’t understand each other fully.
Even if we ended on a note softer than silence, yet heavier than goodbye.
We were good friends — and for me, that’s enough.

---

A Note from Me — After Hearing You

I read your words — not from your lips, but from the spaces we left behind.
And for the first time, I didn’t try to defend myself. I just listened.

You were right about a lot of things.

I did take things seriously. Maybe too seriously. I started expecting more, not because you weren’t enough, but because I was scared of losing what we had. I thought rituals — like “good morning” texts or long messages — could hold the friendship together. I didn’t realize they were starting to feel like weight on your shoulders.

You say I never listened, and it hurts because I thought I was trying. But maybe trying isn’t the same as understanding. I wanted to hold onto us so badly that I forgot to give you space. I confused consistency with care… and you needed something else entirely: freedom, ease, softness.

You felt cornered, and I didn’t see it.

I hated how we drifted. I hated that I couldn’t fix it. And yes, I blamed you in my head for a long time. But reading your side — even imagined through your voice — I see now how much pain you must’ve carried too. How much you stayed silent just to keep the peace.

And about all the things that broke us…
I’ve replayed them in my head too. Over and over.
I don’t just wish they happened differently — I wish they never happened at all.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t try to explain or defend. I’d just pause myself, shut out the noise, and do what I should’ve done from the start: protect our friendship before it even cracked.

But I can’t go back.
And that’s the hardest part of all this — knowing that no matter how deeply I regret it, I can’t undo the weight of the silence, the misunderstandings, the things I let slip between us.

Still… losing you taught me something I couldn’t have learned any other way.

It taught me how fragile people are, even the ones who seem the strongest.
It taught me that care isn’t measured in how much I give — but in how I give it.
That love in any form — friendship, affection, trust — doesn’t grow by holding on tighter, but by letting it breathe.

And I’ve grown because of it. Not perfectly. Not all at once. But I have.
I’m more patient now. A little softer. A little more aware of how easily people can feel unheard even when we think we’re listening. You made me better, even after you were gone.

If you ever read this — or even if you don’t — I want you to know:

I hear you.
And more than anything,
I wish I could go back… and make it like it didn’t happen at all.

I miss what we had — even if it wasn’t meant to last.