I would never just disappear on someone

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the people who’ve disappeared from my life. Not slowly, not with an honest conversation or a natural drifting apart, but suddenly. As if halfway down the road they decided to turn around without a word, and then just… silence. No explanation. No goodbye. No attempt to close anything with care. Sometimes even a block; as if my presence had become too much, and the only solution was to erase it.

And the hardest part? I can’t recall any fights. No big conflicts. Nothing that felt like a turning point. All I remember is being myself. Opening up. Showing who I really am with everything I feel, everything I carry, everything I still don’t know how to navigate.

Maybe I was a lot. Maybe even too much, in their eyes. Because when I finally feel safe with someone ,when I trust them ,I give everything. I don’t hold back. I show up, fully, with all my confusion, intensity, questions, thoughts, and hopes. And I get that that can be overwhelming. Especially for people who aren’t used to real emotional depth, or who struggle to stay when things aren’t easy.

But here’s the thing: I would never just disappear. I wouldn’t stop replying to someone who trusted me. I wouldn’t leave someone hanging in the dark, wondering what they did wrong. I wouldn’t make anyone feel like they no longer deserved to exist in my world.
Not because I’m always strong or capable, but because I know how that feels.

I understand, on some level. Not everyone knows how to be with someone like me. Not everyone can hold space for a person who’s still trying to survive in a world that makes no sense to them. Not everyone can sit beside a life that isn’t light, or linear, or easy to fix. A lot of people only want closeness when it’s cheerful, easy, and uncomplicated. Not when someone says, “I’m not doing okay, but I don’t want to be alone.”

Still, the way people disappear often says more about them than about me. I might be left with a thousand questions, but that doesn’t mean I was wrong. It only means they couldn’t stay. Maybe they were afraid. Maybe they didn’t know how. Maybe they never learned what to do when things get real.

And yet, I can’t separate all this from the life I carry. From the way I’ve had to live for so long: in a room that makes me smaller, in a world that misunderstands me. I’ve never had the luxury of pretending things are okay. I’ve always been looking for people who feel safe. So when I do find someone like that, I hold on tight. I give them all of me. I hope, with everything I have, that this time it’ll be different. That this person will say: “I don’t have the answers, but I’m not going anywhere.”

But they rarely do. And that’s why I keep writing. Not because I expect to fix it. But because I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t affect me. Because disappearing without a word is not normal.
Because silence hurts more than people realise.