The Silence After Goodbye

I didn’t hear the door close.

That’s the thing about endings —

they’re quieter than we expect.

There’s no slam, no echo,

just a soft click

that stays inside your chest

for years.

I thought we had more time.

I thought the promises we whispered

in the blue hours of morning

would hold us like anchors.

But anchors rust.

You didn’t leave all at once.

You left in pieces —

in unanswered calls,

in the space between messages,

in the pauses that stretched too long

between our words.

The house we built with glances

and shared songs

is empty now.

I walk its halls alone,

hearing your laughter

only in memory’s fragile replay.

Grief isn’t loud.

It’s the softest sound:

a forgotten song on the radio,

a coat left hanging,

a cup for two that never gets used.

Nights are the hardest.

Because darkness listens.

It hears the ache I hide by day,

and it asks me

what I’m pretending not to feel.

I want to hate you,

but the truth is —

I miss you more than I can admit,

even to myself.

Every goodbye

carves its name into my bones.

And I carry them,

these quiet scars,

invisible to the world

but heavy, always heavy.

If you ever think of me —

just once,

let it be in the rain.

Remember how we used to dance

like fools,

believing storms were beautiful.

But now,

storms are just reminders

of how easily love can drown.



I gave my heart to the wind,

and it brought back only silence.

Where you once stood —

only shadows remain.

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