Here’s a weird one: you can miss someone you don’t even like anymore. Not the dramatic ex. Not the great love. I’m talking about the friend you outgrew, the coworker you complained about, the relative you avoided at holidays. And yet — some random Tuesday, a song comes on, and there’s this ache. For them. And you think: what is wrong with me? I didn’t even enjoy their company.
Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re not missing them. You’re missing the shape they left behind.
We don’t get attached to people the way we think we do. We get attached to the routines. The morning texts. The person you sent memes to without thinking. The “you won’t believe what just happened” person. When they leave — even if you wanted them to leave, even if you were relieved — the routine stays, empty, like a chair nobody sits in anymore. And empty routines ache.
There’s also this: they knew a version of you that nobody else did. The you from that era. Inside jokes are really just shared history wearing a costume. When the person goes, part of your own past goes with them — the only other witness to who you were then. That’s what stings. Not them. The un-witnessed version of you.
So yeah. You can be glad someone’s gone and still feel the hole. Both things fit. They usually do.
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