There’s something about midnight that opens up the parts of us we usually keep hidden. The world is quieter, but the heart? It grows louder. And tonight, after watching Criza Taa’s raw, vulnerable conversation with Toni Gonzaga—where she spoke about the quiet heartbreak of friendships fading—I found myself sitting with my own ghosts. The ones I used to call mine. The ones I thought would never leave.

Some friendships don’t end with a fight or a bang. They dissolve softly, like mist retreating from the morning sun. You don’t realize it’s over until you scroll through old photos and realize… you don’t talk anymore. No reason. No closure. Just silence.

Criza said something that echoed deeply: “We just grew apart.” No drama. No bitterness. Just space—unspoken, but felt. And I think that’s what most friendship endings look like. Not betrayals, but shifts. Life pulling people in different directions, hearts no longer beating to the same rhythm.

But not all endings are soft.

Some hurt because they didn’t just drift. They cut. They walked away with pieces of you, or worse, sold those pieces to someone else in the name of gossip, envy, or convenience. And I’ve known that pain, too.

Yes—I’ve lost friends who I thought were loyal, only to find out they were more invested in the performance of friendship than its reality. The kind who smile with you in public, but mock you behind closed doors. Who celebrate your wins to your face and diminish them in private. It’s a special kind of ache—to be betrayed by someone you once prayed for, defended, laughed with.

But here’s what I’ve learned, in the stillness of many midnights since:

Not every person who comes into your life is meant to stay. And not every person who leaves is meant to be mourned.

Sometimes, loss is protection in disguise. Sometimes, the betrayal isn’t a reflection of your failure—it’s a mirror of their values. And sometimes, letting go is not just the kindest thing you can do for yourself—it’s the wisest.

I don’t hold hate in my heart. I outgrew that. But I’ve learned to protect my peace. To forgive without re-entry. To send love from a distance while building healthier boundaries.

Because while I’ve lost friends who broke my trust, I’ve also been gifted friends who built it from scratch—brick by brick, moment by moment. The ones who stay not because they have to, but because they choose to. Who don’t disappear at the first sign of difficulty. Who show up—not just for the highlights, but the messy middle parts.

They are the quiet constants in my ever-changing world. The friends who remind me that love doesn’t need to be loud to be real. Who don’t need weekly calls to prove they care. They just do. Consistently. Kindly. Faithfully.

And those are the relationships I nurture now—the ones rooted in honesty, reciprocity, and presence. The ones where I don’t feel like I’m auditioning to be loved. The ones that feel like home, not performance.

So tonight, at 12:00 midnight, I sit here typing with a soft heart and a steady soul.

To the ones who left—thank you. You taught me resilience. You sharpened my discernment. And in many ways, your departure made room for better things.

To the ones who stayed—thank you, deeply. You’ve taught me what love without conditions looks like. You remind me, every day, that I am not hard to love, just waiting for the right hearts to match mine.

And to the version of myself who once begged people to stay: you’re finally learning that not every loss is a wound. Some are the necessary pruning before blooming.

Friendship is never about how long you’ve known each other, but how gently you hold each other’s soul.