Ghosting and Closure: Why We Struggle with Letting Go
— A Reflection on a Long-Lost Friend

by:  Annie Arce-Daet

Sometimes, disappearances speak louder than words. I learned this not through a heartbreak in romance, but through the sudden vanishing of a childhood friend—someone who meant the world to me growing up.  One day, he was there, laughing with me on dusty playgrounds, riding his bike through our lonely streets, and speculating about who we'd become. He vanished the next day, apparently without warning. His family had moved abroad, and he had never said goodbye.

For years, I waited. Perhaps he would write. Perhaps he will return for the summer. But the silence became longer, and I began to feel that he would never return—not to our town, not to our shared childhood, not to the conversations we never finished. It seemed like ghosting, but the phrase didn't exist at the time. All I knew was that someone who meant a lot to me had left a hole in my life, and I had no idea how to fill it.

As I grew older, I realized how much I wanted closure. I needed to know why he left so suddenly, why he never reached out, and why it still hurt decades later. Like many who had been ghosted, I filled the gap with questions: Did I matter? Had I been forgotten? The memory remained fresh, like an incomplete phrase. Ghosting isn't just for romantic relationships; it also happens in friendships. When childhood friends who understood our true selves disappear without explanation, it cuts deep. The pain may differ, but it is just as long-lasting. It calls into question the significance of shared memories and makes us wonder if we were in their story as much as they did in ours.

A few months ago, something unexpected happened: I found him online after twenty-five years. I wasn't sure what to feel: excitement, bitterness, or relief. Actually, it was all of them. We communicated cautiously at first, then more passionately. He explained that their transfer was unexpected and was made by his parents, not him. He wanted to say farewell but wasn't sure how. I realized that what I really needed was closure—not to forget the agony, but to silence the questions. Knowing the truth eased the pain. I hadn't been forgotten; life had simply taken us in opposite directions, beyond our control.

This event reminded me that closure does not always come when we want it, but when it does, it can be healing. Ghosting, whether deliberate or unintentional, can have long-term consequences, yet reconnecting, even if only through understanding, provides peace. We may not get the goodbye we want, but we may choose between the agony of silence and the beauty of what was. And if fate allows, as it did for me, we may be granted a second chance—not to replay the past, but to honor it and graciously close the chapter.

The Weight of Not Enough

Marvelyn D. Ignacio, PhD

Assistant Professor III, Apayao State college

I count my blessings, one by one,

A life, a home, a race well-run.

Love that holds, a place to stand,

The warmth of family’s steady hand.

Yet in the quiet, doubt still grows,

A whispering voice that no one knows.

Not ungrateful, never unkind,

Just a war within my mind.

The undone tasks, the missed-out wins,

The lingering weight of “could have been’s.”

Small goals slipping through my grasp,

Dreams I chase but cannot clasp.

They say, “You’re lucky,” and smile with ease,

But they don’t know the storm beneath my peace.

They see the light, not how it dims,

The silent load behind my limbs.

I measure myself in mirrors and clocks,

Both counting truths I tend to box.

I stand at doors I never cross,

Holding keys I treat like loss.

I set the bar, then fall beneath,

Not for lack of heart or belief,

But time slips fast, and days feel thin,

And I wonder, where do I begin?

If only I gave all I’ve kept inside,

Would I still feel this ache I hide?

It’s not about more, but meeting the thoughts

I’ve pushed behind,

The version of me I can’t yet find.

It’s not that joy escapes my view,

Nor that I lack what’s bright and true,

But deep inside, I wish I’d be

More than what I am to me.