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.

On the first day of classes at San Miguel National High School, every student wanted the same thing—a seat beside their friends.

Laughter filled the classroom as bags were placed on chairs to reserve spaces. Conversations echoed through the room while everyone settled in before the teacher arrived.

Only one seat remained empty.

It was the chair beside a quiet transfer student named Daniel Cruz.

Daniel had arrived from another province after his father was reassigned as a police officer. He carried an old backpack, a notebook with worn edges, and a shy smile that disappeared each time someone looked at him.

No one sat beside him.

Not because he had done anything wrong.

People simply preferred to stay with those they already knew.

When Ms. Rivera, their Communication Arts teacher, entered the room, she noticed the empty chair immediately.

"Is someone absent?" she asked.

"No, Ma'am," the class answered.

"Then why is that seat empty?"

Silence.

Finally, one student spoke.

"We already have seatmates, Ma'am."

Ms. Rivera nodded but said nothing.

Instead, she wrote one sentence on the board.

Communication begins with connection.

During the first week, Daniel rarely spoke.

Whenever group activities were assigned, someone reluctantly invited him only because every group needed another member.

At lunch, he ate alone beneath the old acacia tree behind the library.

One afternoon, while waiting for his mother to pick him up, Daniel noticed a wallet lying near the basketball court.

Inside were identification cards, some receipts, and nearly five thousand pesos.

Without hesitation, he brought it to the principal's office.

The wallet belonged to Mr. Navarro, the school janitor.

When Mr. Navarro learned that all of his salary was still inside, tears filled his eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Daniel simply smiled.

The following morning, the principal recognized Daniel during the flag ceremony.

Students applauded politely before returning to their conversations.

By recess, most had already forgotten.

Weeks passed.

One Friday, Ms. Rivera entered the classroom carrying a small wooden box.

"I have a challenge," she announced.

The students looked at one another curiously.

"This is called the Story Box."

She placed it on the teacher's table.

"Each of you will write one personal experience that changed your life. Do not write your name."

The students spent several minutes writing.

Some described winning competitions.

Others wrote about losing loved ones.

Several admitted fears they had never shared.

Ms. Rivera mixed the folded papers before asking each student to pick one.

"Read the story you receive," she instructed.

"And then?"

"Tomorrow, you will tell the class what you learned from that person's experience."

The room suddenly became quieter.

Students realized they would be reading someone's private story.

That evening, Angela Reyes unfolded the paper she had selected.

It read:

"When I was eleven, my younger sister stopped speaking after surviving a car accident. She was physically healthy, but she became afraid of loud noises and strangers. Every afternoon, I sat beside her without forcing her to talk. Three months later, the first word she whispered was my name. That day I learned that communication is not only about speaking. Sometimes love is shown by patiently waiting for someone to find their voice."

Angela felt tears forming in her eyes.

Whoever wrote the story had experienced something unimaginable.

The next day, Ms. Rivera asked volunteers to begin.

One by one, students shared the anonymous stories they had received.

The classroom that was usually noisy became remarkably silent.

For the first time, they listened instead of waiting for their turn to speak.

When it was Angela's turn, her voice trembled as she read the story aloud.

"I realized," she said, "that listening is sometimes more powerful than talking."

Ms. Rivera smiled.

"Beautiful insight."

She then looked around the room.

"Would the author like to stand?"

Slowly, Daniel rose from his chair.

Several students stared in surprise.

No one had imagined that the quiet transfer student carried such a story.

After class, Angela approached him.

"Your sister... is she okay now?"

Daniel nodded.

"She still speaks softly."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

It was the first real conversation Daniel had with a classmate.

The next day, another student invited him to join a science project.

Later that week, someone asked him to play chess during lunch.

Little by little, the empty chair beside him disappeared.

Months later, San Miguel National High School announced an interschool Communication Festival.

Each class had to prepare a presentation demonstrating the importance of effective communication.

Most groups suggested debates or speeches.

Daniel quietly raised his hand.

"What if we perform a silent play?"

Several classmates looked confused.

"A play without dialogue?"

Daniel nodded.

"The audience will understand through facial expressions, actions, gestures, and music."

One student laughed.

"Communication without speaking?"

Ms. Rivera smiled.

"I think that's exactly his point."

The class agreed to try.

The play told the story of a family who slowly drifted apart because everyone became too busy to talk.

The father constantly checked his phone.

The mother worked overtime.

The son locked himself inside his room.

The grandmother silently ate dinner alone.

No words were spoken.

Only music played in the background.

At the end of the performance, the family finally placed their phones on the table and shared a meal together.

The grandmother smiled.

The lights faded.

The audience remained completely silent.

Then applause erupted across the auditorium.

Many parents wiped tears from their eyes.

The judges awarded San Miguel National High School first place.

During the awarding ceremony, one judge commented,

"Your presentation reminded us that communication is not measured by the number of words we say but by the understanding we create."

Daniel accepted the trophy on behalf of the class.

On the last day of the school year, Ms. Rivera entered the classroom carrying the same wooden Story Box.

She placed it on the table.

"Do you remember our first activity?"

Everyone nodded.

"I have one final question."

She pointed toward the classroom.

"What changed this year?"

Different answers filled the room.

"We became better listeners."

"We learned not to judge immediately."

"We became friends."

"We worked together."

Finally, Ms. Rivera looked at Daniel.

"What about you?"

Daniel glanced around the classroom.

Every chair beside him was occupied.

His classmates were smiling.

"The empty seat disappeared," he said quietly.

The room fell silent.

Everyone remembered the first day of classes when no one wanted to sit beside the quiet transfer student.

Ms. Rivera nodded.

"That," she said, "is what communication can do."

She erased the sentence that had remained on the corner of the board throughout the school year and replaced it with another.

Every conversation is an opportunity to make someone feel seen, heard, and valued.

As the dismissal bell rang, the students packed their bags.

This time, no one left the classroom alone.

Because they had discovered that communication was never just about speaking.

It was about noticing the empty seat beside someone—and choosing to sit there.