They belonged to the version of me
who still believed time was gentle.
The me who laughed without thinking,
who trusted without measuring,
who loved without asking how long it would last.
Back then, I thought people stayed
the way sunsets do —
always returning,
always familiar,
always warm.
But growing up teaches you something cruel:
not everyone is meant to walk with you forever.
Some people are only meant to walk you through something.
You knew me when I was softer.
When my dreams were simple,
when my fears were small,
when I didn’t yet understand how easily
people become memories.
You knew the version of me
who still waited by the phone,
who still reread old messages,
who still believed effort could save everything.
“Do you remember when we used to talk all night?” you once asked.
“Yes,” I said.
But I didn’t say that I missed the person I was then —
the one who still thought we were permanent.
Growing up didn’t happen overnight.
It happened slowly,
in unanswered texts,
in delayed replies,
in conversations that no longer knew where to go.
It happened the day I realized
you no longer recognized my pain,
and I no longer recognized your silence.
“Why don’t we talk like we used to?” I asked one evening.
You shrugged. “People change.”
I nodded.
But what I really heard was:
People leave.
There was a time when you knew
every version of me.
The one who cried too easily.
The one who laughed too loudly.
The one who needed reassurance like air.
The one who believed love was always enough.
Now, you only know the quiet version —
the careful version —
the version that learned to hold everything inside.
“I think you’ve changed,” you once said.
“I had to,” I replied.
But I didn’t say:
I changed because I lost the people who loved the old me.
You belonged to my childhood heart.
The heart that believed friendships were unbreakable,
that promises were permanent,
that “always” actually meant always.
You belonged to the version of me
who still ran toward people instead of away,
who still believed vulnerability was strength,
not something to hide.
But growing up taught me how to build walls.
Not to keep people out —
but to protect what kept breaking inside me.
“I miss us,” you said one day.
I wanted to reply, I miss who I was when I was with you.
But instead I said, “Me too.”
Because sometimes it’s easier to miss a memory
than to accept it can’t be relived.
You didn’t leave loudly.
You didn’t slam doors.
You didn’t say goodbye.
You just slowly stopped showing up.
And I slowly stopped waiting.
That’s how most endings happen —
not with words,
but with distance.
There was a version of me
who would’ve fought harder.
Who would’ve called again,
texted again,
tried again.
But that version of me
got tired of being the only one trying.
Now I belong to a version of myself
who chooses peace over presence,
silence over begging,
healing over holding on.
“I didn’t mean to drift,” you once said.
“I know,” I replied.
But drifting still leaves wreckage.
Growing up means realizing
some people only belong
to the chapters that shaped you —
not the ones that follow.
They were never meant to walk with you into the future,
only to teach you something about yourself
before you became who you are now.
You taught me how to care.
Then you taught me how to let go.
Both lessons were painful.
Both were necessary.
There are days I miss you.
Not you exactly —
but the way I felt when I was you’s person.
I miss the girl who trusted easily,
the girl who loved loudly,
the girl who believed people stayed
if you loved them well enough.
I don’t miss the pain she carried,
but I miss her innocence.
Sometimes I wonder
if you ever miss me.
Not this version —
not the guarded, careful, healed version —
but the old one.
The one who would’ve stayed forever
if staying didn’t hurt so much.
Growing up is not just about becoming stronger.
It’s about learning
which versions of yourself
no longer exist.
And which people belong
to those lost versions.
I don’t hate you.
I don’t resent you.
I just understand now
that you were never meant
to know this version of me.
And I was never meant
to stay the version you loved.
We were right for each other
in a time that no longer exists.
And that’s not failure.
That’s life.