The Departure

The invitation came wrapped as a question.

“You’re invited,” he said.
“But aren’t you working Monday?”

It was offered on days he already knew I could not go.

I recognised it instantly.

I wasn’t invited.

My stomach dropped.
The door widened.

I said it gently.
How it landed for me.
That I would rather honesty than something half-held.
An invitation or not one at all.

The tone shifted.

Defensive

Colder

Business talk replaced connection.

“I’m worn out,” he said.
“Everyone wants a piece of me.
I need to work out how to divide my time and what my priorities are.
And yes, that includes you.”

A pause.

I became a burden.

“Let’s regroup next week.”

That was the beginning of the full discard.

Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just withdrawal.

Plans dissolved.
Contact thinned.
Presence pulled back in careful increments.

I tried to name the feeling.
The way the connection was being removed without being spoken about.
The way my body felt it before my mind caught up.

He shut down.

But left a thread.

“You do you, and I’ll do me.
Maybe we can reconnect down the line.”

No.

I don’t live inside maybes left for someone else’s convenience.

“I’ll put your things at your gate,” I said.

It wasn’t punishment.
It was care.

My way of coping is not to leave ghosts behind.

I don’t disappear.
I depart.

---