The Silence Between Us

In the cathedral of our silence, where words dissolved before they could form, you and I built a world from what we never said—until the day you walked away, leaving me to decipher the ruins of our unspoken truths.

Silence was our sanctuary, you and I its sole keepers. It arched over us, vast and hallowed, swallowing words before they could take shape. You stood just beyond my reach, your eyes a cipher I could never crack. That quiet wrapped us in comfort, soft as a whisper, but it cut too—a blade so sharp I only felt the sting later, alone.

You’d perch on the couch’s edge, one leg folded beneath you, fingers tracing the rim of a cold coffee mug. I’d watch the steam rise and fade, like the truths we left unspoken. Once, you laughed mid-story, your voice catching on some trivial tale—a stray dog, a song looping in your mind. I noticed your hands tremble, your gaze flicker to the window, as if expecting something to appear. I wanted to ask why, but the words stayed lodged in my throat, sinking into the silence we built, layer by careful layer.

One night, in the car, rain blurred the windshield, the wipers’ steady pulse a rhythm we could both pretend not to hear. You turned the radio down, an old ballad about love and loss humming softly, and murmured, “This reminds me of—” before stopping short. My grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles whitening, waiting for you to continue. You didn’t. The rain pounded harder, and we drove on, the unspoken pooling between us like water in a broken cup.

I recall your shadow on the wall, thrown by a lone lamp as we sat through another wordless evening. You held a book, or pretended to, your lips parting as if a thought might slip free. I wanted to ask about the letter I saw you tuck away, your name scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting. I wanted to know what haunted you in the dead of night, what ghosts you faced when I wasn’t there. But silence was my native tongue, and I spoke it fluently, more than I ever spoke to you.

We were masters of omission, you and I, crafting a life from what we refused to voice. Your pauses before answering, my habit of dodging your searching eyes—each a deliberate stroke, shaping the distance we let widen. I thought we could thrive in that unspoken space, that the shape of our silence was enough. I was mistaken.

It was a Tuesday when you left, the sky too bright for goodbyes. You stood at the door, bag over your shoulder, and said, “I wish we’d—” but the words faltered, as they always did. I nodded, my throat tight with unsaid things, and watched you walk away. The silence roared in, no longer a sanctuary but a ruin. I stood among its debris, realizing too late I’d waited for you to speak first, to shatter the spell we’d woven. But you were gone, and all I had was the language of silence—fluent, but empty without you to hear it.

Days later, I found the letter you’d hidden, tucked in a drawer. It was from someone I didn’t know, words of regret and longing that weren’t mine. I read it once, then burned it, the ashes curling like the steam from your coffee mug. I wondered if you’d wanted me to find it, to finally ask. But wondering was all I had left.

The house feels different now, too large for one. The couch still holds the dent where you sat, the lamp still casts shadows that don’t belong to you. I drive past the places we went, the diner where you’d hum off-key, the park where you’d watch the dogs run. Each memory is a brick in the silence we built, heavy and immovable.

I could have asked. I could have reached across that quiet and pulled you closer, demanded the words you swallowed. But I didn’t. We were too good at our art, too skilled at carving absence into something we could live inside. Now, I speak to the silence, hoping it carries my words to wherever you are. I say the things I never did: I loved you. I was afraid. I’m sorry. But the silence doesn’t answer, and I’m left with its weight, a language I know too well, useless without you.