Everything We Never Said

I don’t remember the last thing you said.

Not the exact words, anyway.

Maybe it was “I’ll see you later.”

But later never came.

Only silence did.

And it’s louder than any goodbye.

We didn’t explode —

we eroded.

Like sea-glass under tide,

worn smooth by

all the things we didn’t say.

I think of you in strange moments.

Not the milestones,

but the quiet ones —

when I’m boiling tea for one,

or folding shirts that still smell

like when you used to stay too long

but never long enough.

You were never cruel.

Not directly.

But kindness unspoken

is cruelty in disguise.

You asked me once

why I looked sad

when everything seemed fine.

And I wanted to scream:

Because I miss you when you’re right next to me.

But I didn’t.

I smiled.

You nodded.

And the silence between us

grew roots.

We used to talk about everything —

our pasts, our fears,

even the weird dreams

we never told anyone else.

Now, I don’t even know

if you like the same songs.

Do you still hum in the shower?

Still leave the cabinet doors open?

Still hate the way your voice cracks when you're nervous?

Or have those parts of you gone quiet too?

I wonder if you still think of me

when it rains.

You used to say storms made you feel safe —

as if the chaos outside

matched the mess inside your chest.

I always thought that was beautiful.

But love, it turns out,

doesn’t survive on beauty.

It survives on presence,

on effort,

on the courage to say

“This isn’t working, but I still want you.”

You stopped saying those things.

And I stopped asking for them.

We became polite.

Careful.

Two strangers

who knew each other’s morning routines

but not their midnight thoughts.

I write this not to blame you.

I write it

because somewhere,

between all the unsent texts

and unread glances,

I forgot how to say goodbye.

So this is it:

My farewell wrapped in soft syllables.

No anger.

Just an ache

that still hums

like a song I can’t unhear.

If you ever think of me,

let it be on a quiet night.

When the world feels too still

and the silence too sharp.

And maybe — just maybe —

you’ll hear the echo of everything

we never said.

And if you do hear it —

in the hush between heartbeats,

in the rustle of curtains at midnight —

I hope it doesn’t hurt.

Not in the sharp, tearing way.

But in that soft, familiar ache

of something once loved

and deeply known.

Because despite the silence,

despite the ending we never said aloud,

there was love.

Maybe not forever love.

Maybe not the kind that stays.

But the kind that mattered.

The kind that teaches you

how to feel everything

and still choose softness.

I carry that version of us

like a pressed flower in a forgotten book.

Faded, fragile,

but real.

So if you remember me —

let it be gently.

Let it be whole.

Let it be enough.


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