I hate them. No, that’s not quite right. I hate *myself* for letting it happen. For letting them just... slip away. We used to be inseparable, you know? High school felt like an unbreakable pact, a promise whispered in hushed tones over bad cafeteria food, that we’d always have each other. And we really believed it. Every single one of us, off to different universities, different cities, waving goodbye with tear-streaked faces and the absolute certainty that distance was just a temporary inconvenience. Stupid, naive, hopeful bastards. And now? I'm the one stuck here, watching my mom fade a little more each day, her memory a tattered quilt. And they’re... well, they’re just *out there*, living their lives. I see their Instagram stories, the blurry photos from nights out, the triumphant posts about new jobs or new apartments. And the invitations, when they come at all, are always for things I can’t possibly make it to. “Girls' weekend in Miami!” or "So-and-so's engagement party in Portland!" Do they even remember I'm here? Do they remember what it's like? The few times I've tried to explain, tried to articulate the sheer, exhausting weight of it all, I get polite, vaguely sympathetic emojis back. As if that’s enough. As if a yellow heart means they actually *get it*. The worst part is, I used to be the one who organized everything. The glue. I’d be the one sending out the texts, making the plans, chasing everyone down. Now I just… don't. I can’t. There’s no energy left for it, no spark to ignite that connection anymore. And I resent them for not picking up the slack, for not realizing that just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I don’t exist. For not trying harder. For letting me drown quietly while they build their bright, shiny new lives. I hate them for abandoning me, and I hate myself even more for being so pathetically, desperately alone.