Before Anything Is Said
Friendships don’t usually end with an argument.
Most of the time, nothing dramatic happens at all.
At first, it doesn’t feel like loss.
It feels like waiting.
Like life getting in the way.
Like something patience will fix.
You tell yourself real friendships don’t disappear that easily.
They tell themselves this is temporary that they’ll know what to do once things look more familiar.
No one says anything yet.
Everyone is buying time.
In the Hospital
Friends come to visit.
They smile. They ask how you are.
You answer slowly, carefully, trying to find the words.
They listen, but their eyes don’t stay with you.
They move over your face, your body, the bed, the machines.
They are looking for reassurance.
For proof that your injury won’t change you too much.
You notice a recoil you don’t yet understand.
An unspoken calculation.
How much of themselves this might now require, you realise.
They tell themselves they’ll be better once you’re better.
Nothing unkind is said.
It doesn’t need to be.
Conversation stays safe.
Encouragement is offered gently.
The way you speak when you don’t yet know how to stay.
You feel the distance forming.
They feel the effort beginning.
When They Leave
They hug you softly.
Already half gone.
They say, “We’ll check in.”
They mean it in the moment.
They just don’t yet know what “check in” will cost.
You thank them.
When they leave, your body reacts before your thoughts do.
Your chest tightens.
Your stomach drops.
You know.
They walk down the corridor unsettled.
Relieved to breathe again.
Ashamed that it feels easier away from you.
Those injuries have names.
Stroke. Traumatic brain injury. Disability.
This one doesn’t.
You lie still, injured twice.
They go home hoping the feeling will pass.
After That
Messages still arrive, just slower.
Shorter.
Without curiosity.
You notice you are always the one reaching out now.
They notice it too.
They hesitate before replying.
Not because they don’t care,
but because each response feels like an opening.
An opening they’re not sure how much of themselves they can afford.
You tell yourself not to read into it.
They tell themselves they’re doing their best.
But your body already knows.
The unanswered message.
The plan left open ended.
For you, it feels like being edged out.
For them, it feels like standing at the edge of something they don’t know or don’t want to enter.
Weeks pass.
Friendship, Fading
They grow careful.
They worry about asking questions that might open something they can’t hold.
About being needed in ways they don’t know how to sustain.
They don’t decide to disappear.
They just begin to ration presence.
They keep things light.
They keep things brief.
They think lightness is kindness.
They don’t realise that lightness feels like distance.
That restraint feels like abandonment.
At Home
Life continues elsewhere.
Some people are already gone.
Others hover, unsure how close they want to be now.
Your body doesn’t fit the plans anymore.
Your needs don’t fit the rooms.
You see them still meeting.
The plans aren’t shaped for you anymore.
They stop checking what you can manage.
You stop explaining, without quite deciding to.
You aren’t excluded.
You’re just no longer planned for.
And you realise no one is coming to you instead.
They tell themselves they’ll reach out when things improve.
You tell yourself not to hope too much.
The silence grows between you
heavy on only one side.
Making Yourself Smaller
To hold on, you say you’re fine anyway.
You downplay the bad days.
You don’t want to be heavy.
They sense the edit.
They accept it with relief.
It becomes easier to talk when nothing real is shared.
Easier to stay when nothing is asked.
You become quieter.
Easier to forget.
Grief Without Ceremony
You grieve people who are still alive
still friendly, still reachable
but no longer present.
There is no permission for this grief.
Friends carry something different.
They don’t stay with it for long.
You carry the weight of what was.
They carry the weight of what might have been required.
The Ending
There is no final conversation.
Just a moment when you stop reaching.
A message you don’t send.
An invitation you don’t follow up on.
They notice the quiet
and feel relief.
You notice it
and feel the end.
They didn’t leave all at once.
They measured themselves out slowly.
Until there was nothing left
that didn’t feel like too much.
What Remains
You replay it in fragments.
They think of you sometimes, briefly, vaguely,
and move on.
You wonder when it changed.
They wonder if there was something they should have done differently.
And the truth arrives unevenly.
Some people don’t leave because they don’t care.
They leave because they don’t know how to stay
and because staying would have asked more of them than they knew how to give.
Brain injury doesn’t just change you.
It reveals who can live with change.
If you’ve lived this,
you already know where the calculation began.
And by the time you noticed,
it was already gone.
