How do you know when a thing is over? I think we know before we're even aware of the knowledge. Something new is introduced, some anomaly seen perhaps as simply that - anomalous. But it gains presence, speed, depth, breadth. It becomes a new thing. The transition tends not to be dramatic. It's a little at a time, a frog placed in a pot of cold water that gradually warms to a boiling point.
Some of us are quick to jump to Doomsday predictions over small things, over anomalies. We have a hard time, then, realizing when something is really over; we are used to second-guessing ourselves.
In these cases perhaps the way to acknowledge an ending is simply quietly.
I don't think you and I are friends anymore, I think, but I say nothing. If it is true, then both parties know; and if it is not true, then the tide will turn.
But the quiet sound inside of me says, gently, that it will not.