I understand we can’t be friends with everyone we date—I do, I get that. Time is finite. We have different priorities. It starts to get to a point where one or both parties feel as though they have to force themselves to interact with each other: a jumping through hoops of sorts. A formality—the friendly gesture of: I’m keeping in touch with you sporadically because I’m too nice to tell you upfront that I know this is going nowhere, and I’m merely doing this out of a habit that I once enjoyed, hoping to see if somehow I can relive that same experience, but know fully well that it’s probably not going to happen again, at least for now.
All of a sudden the future plans made together get flushed down the drain. There will no longer be a horribly practiced duet of violins. No congratulatory feast at Chipotle following the completion of our first triathlon. No day trip spent at the beach town of Gloucester. None of it.
Eventually there is a mutually-agreed-upon sequence of dissipation: One will decide to wait a full day to reply back to text. The other will retaliate by waiting to respond after two, and so on. The last thing you want to do is give off the impression that you were, in fact, hoping that every phantom vibration would be them, and therefore respond almost immediately—no—you don’t want to want them more than they actually want you.
After all, the person who cares less holds more power, do they not?
The slowly-but-surely fading away from each other’s lives then begins its insidious process, and the reasons why either of you went out of the way to establish the bond in the first place are conveniently forgotten.
If connection is what drives us, why, then, is it so easy for people to fade in and out of our lives?