The Quiet Things I Never Said

I learned the sound of loss

before I learned how to name it.

It arrived softly—

not as thunder,

but as rooms that echoed

after laughter moved out.

I kept my grief folded

like a letter never sent,

creased by hope,

smudged by time.

Everyone told me I was strong,

but strength felt like standing still

while the world kept leaving.

I missed you

in ordinary places—

empty mugs,

unanswered messages,

the way silence sits heavier

than any argument ever did.

Some absences scream.

Yours whispered,

and that hurt more.

I tried replacing you

with distractions,

with noise,

with new names and borrowed warmth.

But sorrow is loyal.

It follows quietly,

waiting for nights

when the lights are off

and honesty turns loud.

I became fluent in pretending.

“I’m fine” rolled off my tongue

like a prayer I no longer believed in.

Inside, I was still counting

all the versions of us

that never made it out alive.

If healing is real,

it must be slow.

Because even now,

I carry you

not as a memory—

but as a question

that never learned

how to end.