Typing… and Then Nothing

1. The Chat That Never Ended

It started, as most things do now, with a message.

“Hey, you still awake?” — simple, casual, innocent.

You replied within seconds, as you always did back then.

The blue ticks appeared, and suddenly, I felt seen.

Nights became longer, filled with texts that turned into confessions, jokes, memories, and half-written promises.

I never met you in person, but I swear I knew the rhythm of your thoughts better than my own heartbeat.

2. The Space Between Messages

Over time, the replies slowed down — just a bit at first.

You used to send paragraphs. Then, sentences. Then, emojis.

And eventually, just silence.

Still, I stayed there — watching that little “typing…” bubble appear, waiting like it meant hope.

Because that dot-dot-dot meant maybe.

Maybe you’d say what I wanted to hear.

Maybe it wasn’t over yet.

3. The Message I Never Sent

There were so many drafts.

“I miss you.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Can we talk?”

Each one written, erased, rewritten, left unsent.

Because somehow, not sending it felt safer than knowing you wouldn’t reply.

I became fluent in reading silence — every minute that passed after the “seen” felt heavier than words.

Funny how a single empty chat box can hold more heartbreak than a thousand letters ever could.

4. The Night You Vanished

One night, I watched the screen for almost an hour.

“Typing…” appeared.

I held my breath, waiting.

And then — nothing.

No message, no dots, no explanation.

Just silence that stretched across the digital void and into the real world.

That’s how you left — not with a goodbye, but with hesitation.

Like you wanted to say something but couldn’t, and somehow, that made it worse.

5. The Echo After the Silence

Days turned into weeks, but your name still sat at the top of my chat list.

I told myself I’d delete it — but never did.

The heart doesn’t believe in “delete” buttons.

I’d scroll up sometimes, rereading our late-night messages — the jokes that made me laugh, the “goodnights” that felt like small promises.

And every time I reached the last one, my chest tightened.

“Talk to you tomorrow :)” — your last words.

There was no tomorrow.

6. The Realization

I realized something: silence isn’t empty.

It’s full — of what-ifs, maybes, and half-meant goodbyes.

We often wait for closure, thinking it comes in words, but sometimes it’s the absence of them that speaks the loudest.

Maybe you didn’t know how to say goodbye.

Maybe I didn’t know how to let go.

Either way, the message was clear — we were a story that ran out of words.

7. The Present Moment

Tonight, I opened the chat again.

It’s been months.

The app looks the same, but something inside me doesn’t.

I type a message — “Hope you’re doing okay.”

Then I stop.

My finger hovers over the send button.

For a second, I almost press it.

But then I see those three dots appear again in my memory, and I smile sadly.

Because I know now — not every message deserves an ending.

8. The Lesson I Learned

We live in a world where people disappear mid-conversation and call it closure.

Where silence is easier than truth, and read receipts hurt more than words ever could.

But sometimes, not hearing back is still an answer — and learning to accept that is its own kind of peace.

💭 Final Line

You stopped typing, but your silence kept writing itself into me — until I learned to stop reading between the dots.