avwashere

[avwashere]

There’s so much intimacy in never speaking again.

There’s a strange kind of intimacy in never speaking again, in letting everything that once was remain suspended in the air, untouched. It’s not about forgetting, and it’s not about resentment. It’s about honoring what was shared, recognizing that even if the ending was emotionally intense and painful, the good moments, the affection, and the connection weighed more.

Cutting off contact isn’t always an act of indifference; sometimes, it’s the only way to protect what once made us happy. And some people don’t leave your life to disappear forever, but to take time, and maybe come back at the right moment.

When something ends, you don’t just lose a person— you lose a language, a way of understanding each other, moments that won’t happen again. And in that absence, paradoxically, still lives the presence of everything you once were together.

[avwashere]

May 19th, 2025 — Somewhere in Florida.

I turned 26 today.

I didn’t tell anyone. I packed a small bag, left a note on my kitchen table (mostly for myself), and booked a one-way bus ticket to Florida. Just like that. It’s something I always said I’d do... leave the city behind and run somewhere warm, somewhere kind to girls like me.

This morning, I laughed to myself reading Z’s birthday post. He picked that photo of me —the one I swore I hated— and captioned it like I’m someone worth celebrating. And Hunter… he surprised me too. I’ve known him forever, and still, somehow, he found new words to make me feel seen. Their love is quiet but solid. The kind that doesn’t demand anything back. I’m grateful.

I watched The Virgin Suicides again last night, curled up in the world’s tiniest motel bed with all the lights off. Sofia Coppola gets it. The floating sadness. The quiet hysteria. The way a girl can be fragile and powerful at the same time. The way we disappear slowly.

It’s been weeks. Not a word. I thought I’d cry about it today, but I didn’t. Instead, I ordered an iced coffee with milk, wore my favorite yellow dress, and sat near the ocean for hours. I read old poems I wrote back when I still believed in forever. I took photos of strangers, birds, sunlight on skin trying to capture proof that I’m still here.

There’s peace in the silence. Not the kind that feels like punishment— the other kind. The gentle one. The I’m-still-here kind.

Sometimes I think about all the things I could say if I had one more chance. And then I remember I already said enough. So I let the thought go. I’m learning to let things go without turning them into metaphors. (Most days)

I’ve been talking to myself out loud more. It helps.

Earlier, I saw a little girl with tangled hair running barefoot down the beach. She looked like me. Or maybe like who I used to be before I started measuring my worth by who texts back. I smiled at her. I think she smiled back.

I’m not writing this to be profound. I just wanted to remember how this feels— the first birthday I spent completely alone, and didn’t feel lonely.

I needed to forget. I needed somewhere to bury a few things. And Florida seemed like the right place.

I don’t know how long I’ll stay. But I know I’ll be back.

— Av.

[avwashere]

“Avara thought that, even in absence, people remain present. She wondered how long she'd stay alive in other people's memories once she was no longer here.”

[avwashere]

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

[avwashere]

Last one.

So I held on to the idea that none of it was real.

You weren’t real.

You disappeared.

And I took that as your answer.

But if you were—if even for a moment you were real—

then I have nothing else to say, except:

I hope you see the color yellow every time you look into the eyes of the person who makes you happy.

As of today:

“My lips are zipped.”

(for real this time.)

[avwashere]

The soft kind of letting go.

I haven’t said it out loud, but I think I’m done waiting.

It’s been weeks.

He hasn’t come back. Not really.

I still think about that last day.

How it felt like a slow fade.

No door slammed. No final word.

Just… silence.

And now he’s somewhere else.

With someone else.

Maybe laughing the way he did with me.

Maybe not even remembering me at all.

I didn’t expect closure.

But I didn’t expect to feel this invisible either.

Tonight, I won’t text him in my head.

I won’t play the playlist.

I’ll just write.

Fold this page, and tuck it between the others.

This is me letting go.

Softly. Quietly. Like he left.

[avwashere]

Notes I never meant to share.

“Pretty name.”

“I wouldn’t want to forget it.”

That’s what you said.

It’s funny now, in a bitter kind of way.

Because you did forget it.

Or maybe you didn’t—but you chose to act like you did.

That’s just as bad.

I don’t know.

It’s been days. Weeks.

And I can’t keep holding on, even if I want to.

I could twist this in my head a thousand ways.

I could wonder if that day you sent me that first message, you sent it to other people too.

I could ask myself why my disappearance for three days was enough to make you vanish for good, as if that’s all it took for you to stop caring.

Or maybe you never did.

Maybe I never mattered enough for you to even try

to understand my reasons. (I gave them to you—

but it’s fine. I get it. You had to protect your feelings.)

And still… I wonder what would’ve happened

if I hadn’t replied to your message.

You know I almost didn’t.

But here we are.

Or… not anymore.

Too late.

[avwashere]

Back when.

"Kinda rude that Lorde released Liability. Why would you go off like that."

Yes. Of course I saw that tweet.

And yes, of course you deleted it.

(Still, I memorized it.)

—

I remember the smell of cheap frosting.

The dress that dug into my shoulders.

How I laughed without meaning it—because that’s what was expected of me.

"The cake was pink, the kids were loud, and Lucy smiled all day. That’s what matters."

And yet, while I watched her smile, I could feel everything slipping away already.

Like being in a room full of people but with no air.

I didn’t text you.

I didn’t ask if the tweet was about me.

I said nothing when I knew you wouldn’t either.

[avwashere]

Found in the margins.

He tweeted "2009".

I don't know, I'm overthinking. Again.

That's the kind of song you play when something's ended. When you're tired.

When you miss something you're not even sure was ever real.

And I hate how much I understand.

I saw it.

I read the lyrics again.

And it hit me like a wave:

You're sad?

You?

You were the one who left me on read.

You were the one who watched me unravel in silence.

You were the one who joked with every other girl while I waited.

I should be the one tweeting sad songs.

I am the one who cried on the bus.

I am the one who replayed your voice saying "pretty" like it was poetry.

I am the one who counted days. Hours. Silences.

But sure. Go ahead. Be sad.

—

I almost texted you today.

Almost.

Just to say:

"Did you mean any of it?"

But then I stopped myself.

Because if I have to ask...

I already know the answer.

[avwashere]

From the archives.

A memory in ink.

[avwashere]

Just something I wrote a while ago.

It was too soon.

No, wait.

Was it?

Because I started thinking of him when I woke up.

Wondering what song he'd share next.

What he'd say if I told him I like the way he says "petal" — like it's a secret nickname only he gets to use.

He said pretty.

And for a second, I swear the world stopped. That's the closest I've been to breathless in a very long time.

"You feel like a memory I never made, but always carried."

(I read that somewhere. Now it’s all I can think when he texts me.)

I shouldn't feel this much.

It's too soon.

But—

Why do you feel so familiar?

Why do I feel like I already miss you even when we're still talking?

I listened to Lady May again today.

It still sounds like the memory of a memory.

And Feathered Indians—I played it while dancing in the kitchen. Barefoot.

Laughing at nothing.

He teases me about Lorde like it's our own inside joke.

I let him.

(He doesn't know every song reminds me of him now.)

"Don't you think it's too soon?"

"Ava, slow down."

"You barely know him."

I know.

I know.

I know.

But something in me is afraid he'll leave before I figure out what this is.

Before I get to ask him:

Are you feeling it too? Or is it just me?

I'm trying not to hope.

But hope is loud.

Louder than fear some days.

And today... today it won.