Somewhere Between Nostalgia and Boundaries

There should be a name for the ache that comes when you see something and think of someone you’re no longer allowed to send it to.

A birthdate on a tram.

A doppelgänger. Even 4 on the same day.

A meme so dumb it would’ve made them laugh-snort.

A song that once played while you both sat in silence, saying everything without saying anything.

A silly joke someone makes at dinner that instantly flashes their face into your mind, even if no one else at the table knows who they are.

We delete people from our phones.

Block, unfollow, untag.

We move on, redefine our boundaries, reclaim our peace.

But memory doesn’t have boundaries.

Nostalgia doesn’t care if you haven’t spoken in six months, or six years.

And your brain doesn’t ask for permission to feel something when it sees a stupid video you know would’ve made them lose it.

Why does it feel illegal to want to send it?

Not because we want to reconnect.

Not because we want something back.

Just because… they would’ve loved it.

We say, “It’s over.”

We say, “It’s healthier this way.”

And sometimes it is.

But when did our culture decide that connection only counts when it’s still alive?

Why does “no longer in touch” have to mean “pretend you never knew them at all”?

Why do we treat past love, friendship, even family… as if memory should be erased with the last text?

Is it boundaries?

Or is it fear?

That if we send the thing, we’re breaking a rule.

But if we don’t, we’re breaking a little piece of our own heart.

So instead, we hold the moment.

We smile quietly.

And we send it nowhere.

Except maybe…

here.

To the ether.

To the void.

To the part of us that still remembers, still cares, still sees.

Not to rekindle.

Not to reattach.

But just to say:

I saw this, and I thought of you.

And maybe that’s enough.