The Quietest Goodbye

You didn’t leave in thunder.

No slammed doors.

No broken glass.

Just a pause.

A breath.

And silence so complete

it folded the room in half.

Your coat never vanished

it hung by the door

for weeks,

like it too

was waiting

for you

to change your mind.

The tea turned cold.

Twice.

I kept pouring it,

forgetting

you weren’t coming back

to drink it.

I thought grief would roar.

That it would split me.

But instead,

it whispered.

It sat beside me

like an old,

polite ghost

never asking for much,

just wanting

to stay.

I found your note.

Not a letter.

Just a receipt.

Crinkled,

from the bookstore

we once hid in

to avoid the rain.

I pressed it between pages

of a novel

I can’t finish now.

You left like dust does

softly,

quietly,

without asking

if it was okay.

And I didn’t cry that day.

Not until I saw

your toothbrush

still in the cup.

That was the loudest thing

in the house.