All I ever wanted was for us to be closer. That wish, once simple and small, quietly shaped the backdrop of my growing years. It was never loud or desperate—just a gentle yearning, tucked into the corners of everyday life. I imagined us around a bonfire one day, sipping warm drinks, laughing carelessly, singing old songs and roasting marshmallows into golden goo. The kind of scene you see in films about friendships that last.
That was the dream: easy warmth, shared glances, hearts open like the sky above us. I wanted nothing more.
But reality doesn’t always honour our desires.
Somewhere along the way, time built walls where none belonged. At first, they were thin, like paper screens—you could still see the outlines of who we used to be. Then came silence, then new routines, new priorities. Eventually, the walls became concrete. I never thought distance would draw such sharp borders between people who once knew each other by heart. I used to believe proximity guaranteed closeness, but I know now that closeness is a choice—one we both stopped making.
When we were younger, everything felt like forever. Friendships, plans, promises made at midnight. But we grew up, and with that came a quiet realisation: some desires stay children even as we become adults. And so I told myself wanting the bonfire was childish. I dismissed it as nostalgia, a clinging to something that no longer made sense in the present.
But that didn’t stop the longing. It just buried it deeper.
The years stretched between us like an open field I was too tired to cross. Every time I reached out, disappointment waited midway—just enough hope to get me moving, just enough silence to knock the breath out of me. I kept trying to shrink the space between us, but the echo only grew louder.
Eventually, I stopped calling it hope. I called it habit. Then I stopped naming it at all.
Sometimes, silence feels like the kindest closure you’ll get. But it never stops stinging. It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t scream—it just sits beside you, familiar and polite, reminding you of what could’ve been but never was.
The worst part? When the want is only on your part. That’s what breaks your heart the most—not the absence of what you longed for, but the knowledge that you were the only one still longing.
I tried to let it go in my own way. Not with grand gestures, not with final texts or heavy conversations, but slowly—through acceptance. I began to detach from the image of us around that bonfire. I told myself it was just a dream, one that didn’t need to come true to have meaning. It had lived in my heart, brought me warmth, and that was enough.
Then the other night, I dreamt of the bonfire again. The sparks rose into the night like floating wishes, and there we were: all smiles and songs and comfort. For a moment, I believed in it again. But when I woke up, I felt something different.
This time, I let go.
I didn’t grasp at the dream like I used to. I didn’t reach for my phone or scroll through old photos. I simply breathed. I let the bonfire die out, let the dream turn to ash. Not in bitterness, but in peace. Maybe it was never childish to want connection. Maybe it’s just human. But sometimes, letting go is the only way to keep your heart intact.
Some dreams don’t need to come true to serve their purpose. Some are meant to warm you for a little while, and then quietly burn away. Like a final ember in a fading fire.
And so, I leave it there—with gratitude, not grief. The dream, the fire, the version of us that never quite made it.
Maybe that’s closure after all.