the grief of roles that expired quietly

Some endings are loud.

You leave the job. The city. The relationship.
There’s a goodbye, a scene, maybe a send-off.

But some roles end quietly.
Not with a slam, but a soft fade.

You stop offering to lead.
You stop fixing things.
You stop showing up with the same spark.

One day you realize —
You’ve been grieving something no one even knows is gone.

The version of you who said yes.
The one who held it all together.
The one who played by the rules, even when they bruised.

There’s no celebration for that ending.
No “congrats, you outgrew the performance.”

Just a subtle ache.
A strange quiet.
And the slow, strange question:
Who am I without that?

It’s grief, even if it didn’t break loudly.
It’s loss, even if no one else felt it.

But it’s also space.

A small, slow room to ask:

What role is waiting — not to be played,
but to be chosen this time?

quiet prompt:
What version of you ended — but no one ever said goodbye?