Me, My Life & Why Part 4

Part 4

You can tell how your life is going by checking the group chat.

Not the big one, the real one. The old one.

The group that used to buzz constantly with unhinged memes and “who’s bringing wine?” energy.

That one.

Mine has gone quiet.

Not silent, just… hauntingly passive. Like a party that kept going after you stepped outside and locked the door behind you.

This morning I opened it, and for the first time in weeks, I scrolled all the way back.

Back to the voice notes and late-night spirals and weekend plans that fell through but still felt fun to make.

There were selfies from someone’s hen do. An inside joke about oat milk. One long debate about whether anyone actually likes Prosecco or if we’ve all just been pretending since 2014.

And then, suddenly, it stops.

Not dramatically. Not with a fight.

Just a slow fade.

One got a promotion.

One had a baby.

One moved to a new city and now mostly posts aerial shots of her dog and a boyfriend none of us have met.

And one just… stopped replying.

No drama. No “we need to talk.”

Just the digital equivalent of being left on read forever.

There’s no official word for the grief of being slowly edited out of someone’s life, so instead I’m calling it Wednesday.

Because that’s when it hit.

Middle of the week, middle of the month, middle of rewatching a show I already know ends badly.

It’s not that I think they hate me.

It’s worse, I think they just forgot I was still there.

Which makes sense, really.

I haven’t replied to a message on time since 2020. I’ve RSVP’d “maybe” to more things than I’ve actually attended. And the last time someone tried to FaceTime me, I panicked and threw my phone under a blanket like it was cursed.

So yeah. I get it.

I’m not easy to keep up with.

But the truth is, I’m not flaky. I’m just… disorganised.

Chronically, epically, soul-deep disorganised.

I’m the kind of person who forgets she has clean laundry until it smells like the wardrobe. Who once double-booked a dentist appointment with her own birthday. Who has three open milk cartons and no idea which one is from this week.

It’s not intentional. It’s just how my life works… or doesn’t.

I sat with that for a while.

On the floor. Because furniture felt too formal.

Surrounded by the comfort of my half-unpacked shopping bags and unopened post, I thought about all the friendships I’ve watched fade, like tabs I meant to come back to but never did.

I thought about texting someone. Just a little “hey, how are you?”

But what if they don’t reply?

Or worse, what if they do, but it’s awkward now? Polite. The kind of message that wears deodorant and avoids eye contact.

So instead, I did what any emotionally balanced adult would do:

I baked an entire tray of cookies I didn’t need.

Then ate four and offered none to anyone.

Because there’s a weird comfort in doing something wholesome while internally spiralling.

I wish I was the kind of person who could say, “If they really cared, they’d reach out too.”

But I know I make that hard.

I know I disappear.

I know I get overwhelmed and don’t answer and then feel weird about the time gap and then leave it even longer and then it feels too late.

Friendship isn’t like work, there’s no calendar invite, no meeting link, no deadline.

It’s just soft threads that get looser unless someone keeps tying them.

And sometimes, I forget how.

So no, I haven’t been ghosted.

I just stopped showing up.

And they stopped waiting.

I could sit here and spiral about that.

Or I could open the group chat and say:

“Hey. I miss you. I’m still here. Just… bad at replying.”

Maybe I will.

Tomorrow.