The Silence Between Us

By Nadeem Shah

It had been 472 days since we last spoke.

Not that I was counting—at least, not anymore. In the beginning, I counted everything. The days since the argument. The hours since I thought about calling. The number of messages I typed and never sent. The seconds I stood outside your door that one night… and turned away.

Now, silence was the language we spoke best. And it was heavy.

We used to talk for hours—about nothing and everything. You’d sit on the floor by my bed, eating cereal dry from the box while I vented about life. You always had this way of making the world feel manageable. Until the day we couldn’t manage us anymore.

That argument… God, it was stupid. I can’t even remember how it started. All I remember is the way your voice cracked when you said, “You never really listen.” And how I, instead of listening, walked out.

I thought time would fix it. That eventually, one of us would reach out. But silence is a stubborn thing. It grows roots in the places where words used to live. And pride? Pride waters those roots every single day.

A week ago, I saw your name in the group chat. A mutual friend was getting married. I stared at your message—just a simple RSVP—and it felt like someone pressed a thumb into an old bruise.

I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d moved on. But that night, I dreamed of us laughing in your kitchen, our coffee gone cold because we couldn’t stop talking.

So here I am now. At the wedding. Standing across the room. Watching you.

You haven’t noticed me yet. Or maybe you have, and you’re pretending you haven’t. Either way, I keep sipping my drink, trying to convince myself I’m okay.

But then you turn. Your eyes meet mine.

And suddenly, the silence between us isn’t just a void—it’s alive. Pulsing with everything we left unsaid.

Your face doesn’t change, not at first. But your hands… they tremble slightly, just enough for me to notice. And somehow, that tiny movement gives me courage.

I walk toward you.

You don’t move. You just watch me, as if waiting to see if I’ll keep coming.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” I say, my voice unsure, a little too loud over the music.

You nod. “I almost didn’t come.”

That’s when I know we’re both scared. Scared of saying the wrong thing again. Of opening wounds we’ve convinced ourselves were healed.

I take a breath. “I’ve missed you.”

You look down at your shoes. “I thought you hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you,” I whisper. “I hated that I didn’t know how to fix it.”

You finally meet my eyes again, and for the first time in over a year, I see something I recognize—pain, yes, but also softness.

“I missed you too,” you say quietly. “Every day.”

We step outside. The night air is cool, the sky bruised with clouds. For a moment, we don’t speak. We just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, like we used to.

“I wrote you letters,” I admit. “Hundreds. In my journal, on napkins. I just… never sent them.”

You smile, faintly. “I kept your birthday card. The one you gave me years ago. I read it when I missed hearing your voice.”

The silence between us starts to melt—not all at once, but slowly, like ice in the sun.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice breaks.

“So am I,” you reply, and for the first time, I believe we mean it.

We don’t promise to go back to the way things were. We don’t pretend everything is magically healed. But we do promise something softer: to try. To talk. To let the silence speak only when it needs to—but not let it speak for us.

As we walk back inside, side by side, I realize something simple but profound.

The most powerful words aren’t always spoken out loud.

Sometimes, they’re found in the spaces between our fears.

Sometimes, the heart speaks through presence. Through forgiveness. Through trying again.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Author’s Note

Thank you for taking the time to read The Silence Between Us. This story is deeply personal—not because it’s my exact story, but because it carries emotions I think many of us hold onto: regret, hope, the longing to reconnect. If you’re holding onto silence with someone you love, maybe today is the day you speak. Or maybe, you just show up. Either way, healing begins with courage—and you are more courageous than you know.