stasis of goodbyes

and the things we hold on to

last updated on 20th february

A friend once told me goodbye, but we didn't leave.

We stood there, waiting for something. Maybe another word, maybe nothing at all.

That moment stayed with me. The way we say goodbye without really meaning it.

The way we hold on, even when we know we should go.

We do this with people. With places. With past versions of ourselves. We keep our goodbyes in limbo, neither fully here nor fully gone.

Some people collect keychains from cities they've visited. Others collect regrets. I think I do both.

Stupidity isn't just about making mistakes. We human beings are wired for repetition. We can't help it. Ancient hunters returned to the same barren fields, convinced the land would yield something new. Early civilizations built homes near rivers that had already drowned them once before. We have always believed in second chances, in third ones, in the idea that maybe this time, the world will be kinder.

It's about making the same choices with your whole heart, believing—hoping—that this time will be different. It's touching the fire again, knowing it burns. It's rewriting the same sentence, expecting new meaning. It's standing in the doorway long after the goodbye has been said.

Somewhere deep in us, we mistake repetition for resilience. We mistake longing for loyalty. We mistake familiarity for fate.

And so, we hold on. We think if we hold on long enough, something will change.

To people who have already let go.

To places that no longer feel like home.

To versions of ourselves that no longer fit.

Maybe it's instinct—the way we return to what's familiar, even when it hurts. The way we convince ourselves that the past can be undone if we just try hard enough.

We'd rather cling to a sinking ship than risk the uncertainty of open water.

We can stand in the doorway as long as we want, but the moment we're hoping to return to has already passed.

Owning up is more than an apology.

It's breaking your own heart a little, so you don't break it worse later.

But some of us—most of us—are terrible at letting go. We keep things long past their expiration date.

People. Pain. The idea of who we used to be. Maybe we're afraid that if we let go, there will be nothing left.

Stasis is comfortable. It's safe. It's the devil you know.

But it's also a slow death.