“The Silence Between Us”

She was sitting by the window again.
Same seat. Same posture. Same cup of tea that always went cold before she ever drank it.

And I was behind her—again—watching, waiting, wondering if today would be different.
If this would be the day one of us said something first.

The silence wasn’t new anymore. It had become routine.
An invisible wall between us, made not of anger but of exhaustion, fear, and the quiet grief of things unspoken.

We used to be better. Or maybe we just used to try harder.


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🕰️ We Used to Be “Us”

Back when it was new, it was light. Easy. Effortless.
We laughed over burnt toast and late-night movies we never finished.
We whispered stories in the dark and danced barefoot in the kitchen.
Even our arguments had spark—they ended with laughter or at least an apology.

But slowly, without warning, the pauses between our words began to grow.

It wasn’t one big fight. It was hundreds of little ones.
It was forgetting to ask how her day was.
It was her turning off the light in the hallway that she used to leave on for me.
It was me choosing silence when I should’ve chosen honesty.

One day, we just… stopped.
Not loving. Just speaking.

And somehow, that was even worse.


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🪞 The Fear Behind the Quiet

You’d think saying “I miss you” would be easy.
That asking “Are we okay?” would be a simple sentence.

But fear twists simple things into complicated messes.
Fear tells you it’s better to say nothing than to say the wrong thing.
Fear makes you believe silence is safer than truth.

And the longer we stayed silent, the heavier it became.
We started tiptoeing around each other, careful not to press too hard, not to break the fragile quiet we’d built like glass between us.

What were we even afraid of?

That if we spoke, we might admit we were already broken?


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✉️ The Letter I Never Gave Her

I wrote her a letter once.
Not because I planned to send it. But because I didn’t know how else to say it.

> *“I still remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the moon.
I remember how you made rainy days feel like sunlight.

I know I didn’t always say the right things.
Maybe I still don’t know how.
But please know—
I noticed. I listened. I cared.
Even in the silence.”*



I folded that letter and placed it in my coat pocket.
It’s still there, creased and worn from being unfolded and refolded too many times.

I imagined giving it to her so many times.
I imagined her reading it, maybe crying, maybe smiling, maybe saying, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

But I never handed it over.

Because silence is a habit.
And sometimes, habits are harder to break than hearts.


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🌧️ The Days in Between

Life didn’t stop while we were falling apart.
There were still bills to pay, laundry to fold, appointments to attend.
We still ate dinner at the same table, still walked the dog, still said “goodnight.”

But everything felt… muted.
Like living underwater. Like holding your breath too long and forgetting how to breathe.

She’d smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
I’d ask, “Are you okay?” and she’d say, “Yeah,” even when she wasn’t.

I think we both kept waiting for a sign.
A reason to speak again.
A reason to admit we were hurting.
A reason to believe it wasn’t too late.


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🌙 The Moment That Changed It

That evening, I stood by the hallway, letter in hand, heart in throat.

She was by the window, as always.
But this time, she turned around before I could walk away.

Her eyes met mine—not accusing, not angry, just tired.
And then she said it.

> “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to know if you still see me.”



I felt my throat tighten. I took a step closer.

> “I do,” I whispered.
“I always did. I just didn’t know if you still wanted to be seen.”



She didn’t cry. Neither did I.

We just stood there—quiet, raw, exposed—for the first time in a long time.

And in that silence, something shifted.
Not everything was fixed. But something had begun.


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💬 Why This Story Matters

We think love has to be loud. That it has to be poetic, passionate, dramatic.

But sometimes, love is quiet.
Sometimes it’s in the way someone waits for you to speak.
Or the way they still make your tea, even when you haven’t said thank you in weeks.

This story isn’t just about me and her.
It’s about anyone who has sat across from someone they love and didn’t know how to break the silence.

It’s about the weight of things unsaid.
The ache of things almost said.
The hope that maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late to speak again.

So if you’re holding back words—don’t.

Say them.
Write them.
Whisper them if you must.
Because silence may feel safe, but it doesn’t heal.


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