It carries a strange essence, doesn’t it? This sense of nothingness and despair, a surfacing of perpetual grief. A quiet, nagging reminder of the once-sincere promises now shattered by the inescapable passage of time. Where did all of that affection disappear to?

When did the yearning evaporate? How did we let our fondness for each other slip out as we moved forward?

They say everything transitions, and I see it to be true.

Even if you utter my name just as you used to, or even when you whisper to me, “Oliver, I remember everything,” I cannot locate the warmth in your voice as before.

Nor can I seek solace in those familiar words…

The pauses between our exchanges have altered from an ocean deep of understanding they once were, to unsettling, unwelcome gaps.

Unlike our initial conversations, where stillness conveyed magnitudes, these silences are now filled with vacant stares at the objects around us, as we both struggle to find the relevant words to sustain the dialogue.

Our chats have become more of an obligation, a structured framework where we no longer express our true reflections. It’s funny that I had hoped for a different path for us. One where I would continue to call you by my name, and you would call me by yours.