"When Silence Became Our Goodbye"

I never thought silence could be so loud until it became the only thing between us.

There was a time we couldn’t go a day without hearing each other’s voice. Morning calls filled with sleepy hellos, evening messages full of mundane updates, and late-night laughter that made the stars seem closer. But like most stories, ours didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a hush.

It started subtly. A message left on read. A missed call that was never returned. I told myself you were just busy—that life had gotten in the way. But deep down, something inside me shifted. The warmth that once radiated from our conversations had turned cold. The words we used to wrap each other in had disappeared.

And so, silence crept in.

At first, it was awkward. Then, it became familiar. Soon, it felt permanent.

I used to count the minutes between our replies, trying to rationalize the delay. "Maybe he’s asleep," I told myself. "Maybe he’s overwhelmed." But when the hours turned to days, and the days into weeks, I stopped checking altogether. That’s when I knew. Our goodbye had already happened—we just hadn’t said it out loud.

I remember the last time I saw you. We stood inches apart, yet the distance between us felt immeasurable. Your eyes no longer searched mine for stories. Your hands didn’t reach out like they used to. You smiled, but it didn’t touch your eyes. And me? I stood there, waiting—hoping for anything that might remind me of us. But nothing came. Not a word. Not a sigh. Just silence.

That was when I understood: you had chosen not to fight for us.

We didn’t argue. There were no cruel words. No betrayal. No storm that ripped us apart. Instead, there was a quiet undoing. A slow retreat. Like a tide pulling away from the shore, you left me standing in the wet sand, waves no longer kissing my feet.

I wanted closure. A final conversation. A reason. But sometimes, the lack of an ending is the ending itself. I kept drafting messages I never sent, rehearsing words you’d never hear. I searched for answers in the spaces between our silences.

Eventually, I stopped writing.

Instead, I started remembering. The little things. Your laugh when I said something dumb. The way your fingers tapped when you were nervous. How you looked at me like I was the only person in the room. Those memories stung at first. But over time, they softened. They reminded me that what we had was real—even if it wasn’t forever.

Silence taught me something words never could. It taught me that people can love you deeply and still leave. That sometimes, it’s not about what went wrong, but what quietly faded away. That absence can speak louder than presence.

I never hated you. I just missed the version of us that laughed without hesitation, talked without pauses, and loved without fear. I mourned not just you, but the future we planned and the past we shared.

If I saw you now, I wouldn’t know what to say. Maybe I’d smile. Maybe I’d walk away. Or maybe I’d sit beside you in silence—not as lovers, not as strangers, but as people who once meant everything to each other.

Because in the end, not all goodbyes are spoken.

Some are simply lived.

And when silence became our goodbye, I finally understood that sometimes, the quietest endings are the ones that echo the loudest.