For the longest time, I was the one who kept showing up, crossing cities, rearranging schedules and initiating the contact, not because it was convenient, but because family mattered.

I used to believe love meant always making the first move. Keeping the door open, sending the invitation and extending the grace and perhaps, for a time, it did.

Until silence answered my efforts. Until I learnt that not everyone values connection the same way. Until I heard that she was ten minutes away and chose not to come. Again.

It wasn’t rejection that finally broke my heart. It was the pretence — the excuse of “not being invited”. As if the distance between us hadn’t already become a silent wall. As if proximity without presence was enough.

I didn’t stop calling to be cruel. I stopped to protect what was left of my peace because I was always alone, even when I was there and that ache… it echoed louder than any goodbye.

One of the reasons I said yes to New Zealand was because I realised I could be lonely anywhere but here, at least, the loneliness didn’t come dressed in false obligation or surface pleasantries.

Now, 11 years on, our conversations

have faded into timestamped greetings: Happy Birthday. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.

No more check-ins. No more “just thought of you" and though my heart still holds love, I no longer carry the weight of proving it.