They say silence is peaceful. But not all silence is soft. Some silence screams.
Mine did.
It wasn’t the romantic kind of silence that poets write about, or the kind that lovers share under moonlight. No—my silence was heavy. It sat on my chest at night, crushing my ribs. It lived in the pauses between my texts and their replies. It echoed in the rooms I used to laugh in.
And he? He was the kind of silence that promises everything—then gives nothing.
I remember the day his messages changed. From fast replies to cold delays. From sweet nothings to dry sentences. From “I miss you” to “I’ll be back soon.” But “soon” stretched into forever. I waited. I held my phone like a lifeline, re-reading old messages like they were sacred. I stared at his last seen. I stared at mine.
Until I realized… I was staring at a ghost.
He didn’t leave loudly. He left like smoke—vanishing without a door slam, without a goodbye. Just silence.
At first, I blamed myself. Was I too much? Too emotional? Too alive? Maybe I should’ve worn less makeup. Maybe I should’ve talked less. Maybe I shouldn’t have trusted the way his eyes lit up when he saw me.
But then I remembered something powerful.
I am not hard to love. I am just hard to fool.
He thought my kindness was weakness. He thought I would beg. He thought I didn’t know my worth.
He was wrong.
So I stopped waiting. I stopped rereading. I stopped giving him power over the way my heart beat.
I turned my pain into power.
I wore my favorite shorts, even when the world stared. I blasted my music in my tiny dorm room and danced like nobody was watching—even if I cried after. I told myself: You’re not here to be chosen. You’re here to choose yourself.
And God, I did.
I chose my peace over his promises. I chose my gym over his games. I chose silence—my silence—the kind that doesn’t scream in pain, but whispers in strength.
Because now, when people leave, I don’t chase.
I close the door slowly, smile, and say: Thank you for the lesson.