The Silence That Said Everything

It was past midnight—12:30 AM, to be exact. The lights in my room had been turned off for a while, yet I remained wide awake, staring at the screen of my phone.
Your last message still hovered there: “I’ll text you later.”
You never did.
It had all started so casually.
You entered my life like a breeze before a storm—sudden, unexpected, and strangely comforting. We talked every day—about everything and nothing. Some conversations were light, filled with silly jokes, while others were deeper, late-night confessions wrapped in warmth. Your laughter felt like medicine, your words like a balm to my restless mind.

I slowly began to believe—maybe this was something real.
Maybe you felt it too.
Maybe one day, you'd say, “I’m here,” not just in words, but in the kind of way that stays. But one day, your messages started coming late. Then, they didn’t come at all.
You changed.
The person who once sent “Hi” every evening now only left me on Seen.
The one who used to laugh at my lame jokes was now too quiet, too distant. At first, I thought you were busy. Maybe going through something. I gave you space, I gave you time. But slowly, I realized—it wasn’t time or stress. It was disinterest.
And your silence became the loudest answer of all.
I kept telling myself—you never said it’s over. You just stopped talking. But silence hurts more than rejection. A “No” would’ve been a wound. Silence is an infection—it spreads, quietly and slowly.
Every night, when the world fell asleep, I read our old conversations over and over again.
I tried to find out where I went wrong.
Did I say something that hurt you?
Did I overthink everything while you thought of me as “just someone”?

You not texting back wasn’t just a delay. It was a refusal.
But you never said it.
And somehow, that was crueler.
I accepted it, eventually.
We all do.
We learn to read between the unspoken.
We learn that “later” sometimes means “never.”
And that not saying anything... is a decision too.
So, I stopped messaging you.
I stopped waiting.
I stopped checking if you’d seen my story or if you’d come back with a “Hey.”
Your silence became a mirror—and in it, I saw myself, still holding on to a thread that had already been cut.
And finally, I let go.
These days, I don’t cry.
I write.
Because in writing, I find a voice again—the one I lost waiting for yours.
If you’re somewhere out there, I hope you’re well.
I hope you’ve found peace, or at least a quiet that doesn’t ache.
And me? I’m healing—slowly, silently, with every word I write.
Your silence created these stories, and now, they’re the only parts of you that speak back to me.