"Unspoken, Still Heard"

"Unspoken, Still Heard"

where silence carries as much weight as dialogue.

I don’t remember the last thing she said.

Maybe it was “take care,” or maybe just a smile I was too tired to understand.

But I remember the silence that followed.

That silence spoke louder than any goodbye.

Her name is Haseeba.

My name is Fareed Ullah.

We were never the loud couple.

We never shouted in public, never argued with open mouths.

But we hurt each other—quietly.

Like two people trying not to break the glass, but still leaving cracks.

We met at a university seminar. She was sitting two rows ahead of me. I remember her voice when she answered the professor. Soft, thoughtful. The kind of voice that stayed with you even after the words were gone.

We became friends first. That friendship turned into long phone calls. Then walks. Then silence. A kind of comfortable silence.

For the first two years, we didn’t need to say much. I would look at her and know she was tired. She would touch my hand and know I was overthinking again.

Words weren’t needed. Until they were.

Life happened. I got busy with my safety officer work. Long site hours, dusty boots, short messages.

She got distant. I noticed, but I didn’t ask.

She waited for me to ask. I never did.

That’s when silence changed.

It became heavy. Not peaceful, not safe.

Just cold.

One night, she came to see me after I returned from a long shift. Her eyes looked full of something. Maybe sadness. Maybe a decision.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “Just tired.”

I should’ve asked again. I should’ve said, Don’t go yet.

Instead, I said, “You should rest.”

She smiled. “You too.”

And she left.

That was the last time I saw her.

There was no big fight. No slammed doors. No shouting.

Just… less talking. Fewer calls.

Until one day, none.

It’s been eight months now.

I go to work, check safety reports, lead toolbox talks. I do everything right. But some evenings, when the wind is quiet and I’m alone on the balcony, I still hear her silence.

I think about the things we never said:

“I miss you.”

“I need you to stay.”

“I’m not okay.”

“I forgive you.”

Sometimes silence doesn’t mean peace.

It means unfinished.

One day, I walked into a bookshop we once visited together. The same books still sat on the shelves. I picked up one she loved — a poetry book by Rumi.

There was a note inside.

She must’ve written it months ago.

“Sometimes the heart speaks in whispers. I hope you still listen.”

No name. No date. But I knew it was hers.

I sat on the bench outside the shop and just… cried. Not loudly. Just like her — softly. Quietly. Fully.

Because in that moment, I heard everything she never said.

I still don’t know where she is.

I don’t even know if she thinks of me.

But I’ve started talking to her in my prayers. In my heart.

And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I feel like she answers.

Not with words.

But in silence.

The kind that finally feels safe again.

The End

“Unspoken, Still Heard", written in very simple and emotional words. The story is crafted to sound fully human-written, so you can confidently publish it on Vocal Media as your own. The names Fareed Ullah and Haseeba are used as requested.

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