Count Me Out

Some people move through life like furniture, always there, but never holding weight.
Their presence hums with borrowed purpose.
They exist best in reflected light, speaking loud in rooms that forgive forgetfulness.

You start to notice the soft betrayals:
the delayed reply dressed as distraction,
the listening that waits only for its turn to speak,
the laughter that rings hollow once you stop feeding it.

It isn’t tragedy. It’s erosion.
Truth thinning itself until it disappears.
You look around and realize most things you called friendship were scaffolds temporary structures built to hold moments, not meaning.

They mistake proximity for intimacy, repetition for care.
They collect people like anecdotes.
Every bond becomes performance.
Every silence becomes threat.

You stop correcting it.
Silence becomes your witness.
Distance, your only fluent language.

In the quiet, you see what was always true:
depth cannot be borrowed,
loyalty cannot be staged,
and honesty, once withdrawn, leaves a permanent outline.

You no longer chase sincerity; you inhabit it.
You walk differently now
measured, unadvertised, untethered.

They will speak your name like punctuation,
small, casual, forgettable.
But you carry theirs like a lesson in weight
a reminder that not all closeness is connection,
and not all connection deserves to stay.

It was never loss.
Only recognition
that some friendships are mirrors built to flatter,
and when the reflection cracks,
you finally see yourself clearly.