The Silence Between Us

We didn’t stop talking all at once.

That’s not how silence works.

It crept in slowly, like fog at dawn—soft, subtle, and nearly invisible at first. I wish I could say there was one final moment, one loud argument or slammed door, but the truth is quieter. And somehow, that hurts more.

We used to be everything to each other.

Laughter came easy back then—so did words. We would talk for hours about nothing, and everything. From politics to what kind of cereal tastes best soggy. From childhood dreams to which star we'd live on if we could leave Earth.

And then… life happened.

I don’t even know when the shift started. Maybe it was that winter when we both got too tired to try. Maybe it was when we stopped watching sunsets together because one of us was always “busy.” Maybe it was the moment we chose convenience over conversation.

I remember the day the silence became loud.

We were sitting across from each other at the dinner table. The clink of the fork against the plate felt like thunder. We both chewed slowly, eyes on our food, pretending this was normal. But inside, I was screaming. I wanted to ask, "Where did we go? Where did you go?" But the words stuck like dust in my throat.

He reached for the salt. I passed it. That was our exchange.

That night, I lay awake wondering how two people who once shared every thought could now go a whole day without even asking, "Are you okay?"

But we kept going. Days passed, and we got good at pretending.

We still shared a roof, a kitchen, a bed. But not our hearts. Not our thoughts. Not our dreams. I’d sit beside him, scrolling through my phone, while he stared blankly at the television. We looked like a couple from the outside, but inside, there was a vast ocean between us. And we were both afraid to swim.

I wrote letters I never gave him.

I typed notes on my phone at midnight—things I was too scared to say. Things like:

“I miss you even when you’re right here.”

“I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

“Can we please talk before we disappear completely?”

But I never sent them.

Because silence, once it takes root, feels safer than truth.

There were no bad intentions between us. No betrayal. No cruelty. Just two people too tired or too wounded to bridge the gap. Too afraid that saying something real might break what was already fragile.

The silence turned into routine.

We went to work. We came home. We ate dinner. We slept. We repeated.

I began to wonder:

Is this what it means to outgrow someone—not in anger, but in absence?

One day, I came home and found a note on the kitchen counter.

“I’m going to stay with my sister for a while. I need space. Maybe you do too. I don’t know how to talk to you anymore.”

It wasn’t dramatic. Just quiet honesty.

I stood there, staring at that folded paper. And all I could think was: He finally said something. After all this time.

But I didn’t run after him.

Because I didn’t know what I’d say either.

It’s been three months now.

Sometimes I still reach for my phone to text him. Sometimes I see something funny and imagine him laughing the way he used to, eyes squinting and head tilted back. Sometimes I play our old playlist in the kitchen while cooking, and the silence between the songs feels louder than ever.

But most of all, I think about everything we didn’t say.

The apologies.

The “I’m scared.”

The “I miss you.”

The “I still care.”

The “Can we try again?”

People always say words can hurt. But what they don’t tell you is that silence can wound deeper. Silence is a slow fade. A quiet goodbye you never hear until it’s over.

And yet, in that silence, I found something else—myself.

Without him here, I’ve started speaking again.

To friends.

To family.

To my own heart.

I’m learning that not all silence is the enemy. Sometimes, it’s space to heal. To reflect. To grow. And maybe one day, if we find our way back, it won’t be the same love—but it might be an honest one.

Or maybe we won’t find our way back.

But I’ll always carry the memory of who we were before the silence.

And I’ll always wish we had spoken, just once more, before the quiet claimed us.