Falling Into Familiarity
17:13 Jan 11 2025
Times Read: 34
I should have known.
It always starts with that spark, that glimmer of something better just beyond reach. It’s easy to get caught up in the idea of something new, something different... something that might finally be what you’re looking for. For a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe this time will be different. But it never is.
It doesn’t hit all at once. It’s slow, insidious. A missed text here, a delayed response there - small things that feel like nothing at first, easily explained away. But they add up. And before long, that initial excitement is replaced by a quiet, gnawing uncertainty.
You start to feel the shift, the subtle change in tone, the shift from warmth to distance. And that's when it hits you. This is the same story, with the same ending, just a different version of the same thing. It’s like watching something crumble in slow motion, knowing exactly where it’s headed, but still feeling powerless to stop it.
It’s not that it’s a huge shock. It never is anymore. It’s just the weight of that familiar realization. That sinking feeling when you know the pattern all too well, but still hoped it would break. And in the end, it doesn’t.
There’s no big confrontation, no dramatic moment where it all falls apart. It just fades. The words lose their meaning. The space between moments grows longer. The connection that once felt so real becomes a shadow of what it was. And then, it’s over.
I guess I should’ve known better. But there’s something about hope that makes you forget, even when you’ve been here before.
A Year That Faded Quietly
12:50 Jan 01 2025
Times Read: 92
New Year’s Eve has never been extravagant for me - no big parties, no glittering crowds. This year was to be just the quiet company of one other person. The plans had been tentative... half-discussed over casual text. Nothing set in stone, but enough to make me feel like I wouldn’t be spending the evening alone.
I had pictured it in my mind: a bottle of something bubbly, a movie or two, the soft rhythm of conversation filling the spaces between the hours. It wouldn’t have mattered much what we did, really. The point was the company, the shared moment of saying goodbye to one year and hello to the next.
But as the day wore on, the silence grew. The tentative plan, already fragile, began to feel like something imagined. I waited for the text, some confirmation that it hadn’t slipped away with the hours. It didn’t come.
I debated reaching out myself, typing and deleting messages that felt too eager, too heavy with expectation. They were under the weather. Maybe they’d forgotten. Maybe they had changed their mind and didn’t know how to say it. The “maybes” piled up, each one heavier than the last, until I finally stopped checking my messenger altogether.
By evening, it was clear: the night would be mine alone.
I lit a candle, more for the company of its soft glow than anything else, and made a cup of coffee. There was no champagne, no countdown waiting in the wings. Just me, the hum of my computer, and the occasional burst of fireworks outside, distant and hollow.
I tried not to feel disappointed. After all, the plans had never been concrete. But it still stung, that quiet realization that the connection I’d hoped for wasn’t coming.
The clock ticked closer to midnight, and I found myself reflecting on the year that was ending. A mix of highs and lows, successes and missed opportunities, like every year before it. This wasn’t the way I’d wanted to close it out, but life doesn’t always give you the ending you plan for.
When the clock struck twelve, I whispered a quiet “Happy New Year” to no one in particular. It wasn’t the night I’d imagined, but it was a night nonetheless.
The year turned over, as it always does...
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