Chapter 9: Reaching Into Silence
1139 Words
They say silence is loud. But they never tell you how deafening it gets when it’s coming from someone you once called home.
It had been eight days since J left.
Eight long days of waiting. Of checking my phone every fifteen minutes. Of sleeping with the screen pressed against my chest like maybe, just maybe, he’d call while I was asleep and I could catch him in a dream.
I told myself, He’s just confused.
I told myself, Maybe he needs time.
I told myself, He’ll come back.
Because how do you go from being someone’s "everything" to nothing at all?
So I broke my silence.
I texted.
Me: Hey. Can we talk, please?
No response.
I waited an hour.
Then three.
Then all night.
The next morning, I sent another message.
Me: I don’t understand what happened. You said you loved me. If there's anything left—please, let's talk.
Still nothing.
My throat was tight. My fingers hovered over the call button, heart racing, hands trembling.
I called.
It rang twice.
Then cut.
No voicemail. No message. Just a brick wall where his voice used to be.
And still, I told myself, Maybe he’s just busy.
So I called again the next day.
This time, it went straight to voicemail.
“The number you are trying to reach is unavailable at the moment. Please try again later.”
It felt like being slapped with a ghost.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror that night—eyes swollen from crying, lips trembling, voice gone. I didn’t recognize the girl looking back at me.
This girl was lost.
This girl was hollow.
This girl was still in love with someone who no longer saw her.
And still, I tried again.
On the tenth day, I sent him a voice note.
Just 34 seconds of my heart unraveling.
“I don’t know what happened, J. One minute you were here and then… you just weren’t. I’m not okay. I can’t pretend to be. I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I know I shouldn’t be the one begging, but here I am. Because what we had… it mattered. It still does. Please. Say something. Anything.”
I waited. I watched the blue tick turn gray again.
He had listened.
But no reply came.
It felt like drowning in plain air.
Two days later, I tried to call one last time.
He answered.
“Hello?” he said, his voice flat.
For a second, I forgot how to speak. His voice. It was the sound I had missed like oxygen.
“J…” I whispered.
Silence.
“Please… can we talk? Just… I need to know. I need to understand.”
He sighed.
And then he said the coldest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Mercy… I don’t think there’s anything left to talk about.”
My world tilted. I swallowed my sob.
“How can you say that? After everything? After all the plans, the promises, the love—how can you just switch off like that?”
He was quiet.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, emotionless. “It’s over.”
And then… he hung up.
Just like that.
The line went dead.
And so did a part of me.
I lay on the floor for hours that night.
Not on the bed.
Not on the couch.
The cold tile floor—because somehow, it felt like the only thing that matched the coldness in my chest.
I cried until my body was sore from shaking.
Until my voice was hoarse from whispering his name.
Until the sun rose and reminded me that even the worst nights don’t last forever.
But it didn’t feel like light.
It felt like punishment.
The world was still turning while mine had stopped.
I started doing things just to feel him.
Wearing his hoodie that still smelled like him.
Scrolling through our old pictures in the cloud I hadn’t deleted.
Listening to the playlist we made together on repeat.
But nothing filled the void.
Nothing brought him back.
I found myself typing messages I’d never send.
"Do you miss me at all?"
"Did you ever love me?"
"What changed?"
And then I’d delete them, because what was the point?
He had made it clear.
He was done.
One night, I sat with my grandmother under the same mango tree we’d once shared, J and I. The memory stung.
I couldn’t hide it anymore.
“He’s gone, shosh,” I whispered. “Just like that. He doesn’t even care.”
She looked at me with eyes full of years and quiet wisdom.
And she said something I’ll never forget.
“Sometimes, baby girl, the heart plays music for someone who’s already dancing to silence.”
I broke down.
Because that’s exactly how it felt.
I was still singing the song of our love while he had muted it.
In the days that followed, I went through phases.
Hope.
Maybe he’ll realize he made a mistake. Maybe he’ll come back.
Anger.
How dare he make me believe in forever and then vanish?
Shame.
Why did I beg? Why did I apologize for things I didn’t do?
Loneliness.
No one gets it. No one understands how much he meant.
Silence.
Sometimes I just stared at the ceiling for hours. No thoughts. Just hurt.
I started dreaming about him.
In my sleep, he came back.
He smiled. He apologized. He held me like he used to.
I’d wake up reaching for him—then remember.
It wasn’t real.
Not anymore.
A week passed. Then another.
No text.
No call.
Not even a like on the posts he used to comment on first.
So I made another decision.
I deleted the backup.
I erased the cloud.
I cleared our messages from my laptop, my email, my heart.
Not because I stopped loving him.
But because loving him was no longer healing me—it was breaking me.
I even removed his number from my phone.
Not blocked.
Not deleted.
Just removed.
Because I didn’t want to reach out again and be met with silence.
Not one more time.
And I changed my wallpaper again.
This time, it wasn’t blank.
It was a picture of the ocean—wide, powerful, untouchable.
Because I needed to be reminded:
I am not small.
I am not unlovable.
I am not forgettable.
He forgot me.
But I would remember me.
And yet… some nights I still whisper his name.
Some nights I still pray God brings back the feeling—not just for him, but for me.
That one day I’ll feel joy again. That I’ll laugh without pretending.
That I’ll look back and not hurt.
But tonight, for the first time, I didn’t reach for my phone before falling asleep.
And maybe that’s where healing begins.
- Writer
