The Quiet After You Left

There’s a hush in the room

where your voice still lingers,

a breath of you in every shadow,

in every untouched corner of my heart.

You never said it outright,

but I read between the lines—

the way your eyes avoided mine

was louder than any farewell.

I kept replaying our last walk,

the way autumn leaves fell around us,

as if the world already knew

that something was ending gently.

Love doesn’t always crash down—

sometimes it just fades,

like candlelight at dawn,

soft and silent and sure.

I held onto the hope

of one more message,

one more touch,

one more “I’m still here.”

But silence became your answer,

and absence, your truth.

So I closed the door

not with anger,

but with care—

like tucking away a story

too precious to forget,

but too heavy to carry forward.

And now I breathe again,

not because the pain is gone,

but because I’ve learned

to hold space for both love and loss.

For you taught me

how deeply I could feel—

and how bravely

I could let go.