Maybe It’s Just Me

I don’t know when exactly things started to feel off, but they did. Slowly, silently—like a door creaking shut without anyone noticing until the room is suddenly cold.

She was never “mine,” and yet every part of me acted like she was. Like she should be. Like maybe, if I stayed close enough, if I showed up enough, she’d eventually see what I couldn’t say.

We started off normal—small talks, shared walks, some banter, a bit of warmth. It was comfortable, familiar even. But now… she laughs more around others, sits closer to them, and with me, there’s this invisible space—small, but loud enough for me to notice.

And maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I’m overthinking the way she leans a little more toward someone else or how she shares inside jokes with others that I’m not a part of. Maybe it’s not intentional. But even if it’s not, it stings.

I still care in ways she probably doesn’t even register. I make sure she gets home safely, even if it’s just by checking in or dropping her off when I can. But she never texts back when she reaches. I have to ask. And even then, hours pass. Sometimes, the reply never comes.

She says she lives with her family, and I get that. But hours? For just a “reached” or a “thank you”? Somewhere deep down, it feels like she doesn’t forget—she just doesn’t feel the need to reply.

Maybe to her, all this care is just friendly courtesy. A nice guy doing nice things. And maybe to me, it’s not just that. Maybe I’ve started seeing her differently than she sees me. Maybe I expected too much without her ever promising anything.

But I can’t shake off the feeling that she’s warmer with others—especially the ones who help her with things. I wonder if connection, for her, is convenience. Maybe she values people for what they offer, while I value her for who she is.

And yet here I am, sitting with all these thoughts I can’t voice, pretending to be unaffected. Maybe she hasn’t changed. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I cared too quietly. Maybe I stayed too long in the background. Or maybe I simply wasn’t the one she’d ever choose to see.

Whatever it is… it hurts more when it’s silent. When nothing is said. When there’s no fight, no closure, just a growing gap and the ache of not being enough.

But again, maybe it’s just me.