You’re still here—
technically.
Your clothes still hang,
your laugh still echoes when it’s convenient,
your body still moves through the spaces we once called sacred.

But you’re gone.
You left before your footsteps ever did.

And the cruelest part?
You think I don’t see it.

You think I don’t feel the way you vanish
while pretending to be present.
You think my silence means I’m asleep—
when really, I’m the only one awake.

I see the way you pause before saying “I love you,”
like it’s a habit you’re rehearsing,
not a truth you’re living.

I hear the emptiness in your updates,
the way you share everything except the parts
that matter.

I feel the way your body stiffens
when mine reaches for it—
like I’m not the one you want to be held by anymore,
but still the one you expect to hold you up.

You think I don’t see the way your phone lights up
with the glow you used to have for me.

You think I don’t notice
the way you praise someone else’s mind
with the language you once reserved for mine.

But I do.
I see it all.

And I’ve said nothing—
not because I’m weak,
not because I’m unsure,
but because I’ve learned that when someone chooses a mask,
you cannot convince them of the mirror.

I won’t beg you to look at me.
I won’t fight for what should be freely given.

You’re still here—but I’m no longer waiting here.

So take your time.
Play your game.
But when the silence becomes too loud,
when the mirror finds you on its own terms—
remember this:

I never stopped seeing you.
You just stopped being seen.