When I left, we promised to stay in touch.
I remember for months we’d send emails every day, keeping as close as possible.

On our birthdays we’d post photos of us smiling for all the world to see.
“One of my closest friends” the caption would say.
“I miss you so much” my comment would be.

I seem to have skipped years between then and now, because I  lay awake wondering how we’ve grown so distant.
The last time I emailed you was two years ago, for Christmas. I told you I would call later.
I never did.

I think your birthday was last week. I wouldn’t have known if not for my phone showing me a photo of us at a pool, “seven years ago”, holding plates of cake.
At some point I stopped wishing you a happy birthday, but I can’t remember when.

At some point you stopped telling me your plans for the holidays. At some point I stopped thinking about you every day.
Sometimes I can go months without missing you.
I hate it.