Chapter Two: The silence between us
768 Words
My name is Amara, and I used to think silence was peaceful until it came from the person I loved.
There was a time my mornings started with his voice.
Every day, without fail, he’d call. Sometimes to say “good morning,” sometimes to complain about traffic, sometimes for no reason at all, just to hear me breathe, he said.
I thought that was love. I thought that was forever.
Now, my mornings start with silence.
Not the good kind, the kind that presses down on your chest, the kind that makes your heart remember what used to be there.
I don’t even remember the exact day he stopped calling. I just noticed one evening that my phone had been quiet for too long. It’s strange how someone’s absence doesn’t hit all at once. It creeps in slowly, in small gaps between hours, until suddenly, you realize the gap has swallowed the whole day.
At first, I told myself he was busy. That maybe he’d call later, that he’d explain, that I shouldn’t overthink it.
But every time my phone buzzed and it wasn’t him, my chest tightened. Every night, I scrolled through our old chats, rereading messages I already knew by heart his words, his emojis, his I miss you.
Now, I miss him more than he probably ever missed me.
I stopped eating properly. My mother noticed.
“Amara, are you okay?” she asked.
I said yes. I lied.
How do you explain to someone that you’re starving, but not for food for a voice, a name, a presence that used to fill every space inside you?
I tried distracting myself. Music. Work. Friends. But even songs betrayed me. Every lyric sounded like him. Every quiet moment whispered his name.
Kemi came over one Saturday, dropped her bag, and looked at me like I was a ghost.
Kemi has been my closest friend since secondary school, loud, honest, the kind of person who says what you’re too scared to admit. She’s seen me cry over silly things, but never like this.
“Amara, this isn’t you,” she said softly. “You’ve lost weight. You’ve stopped laughing. He’s not calling anymore, but you’re still waiting.”
I looked at her and said, “What if he does call, Kemi? What if he just needed time?”
She shook her head.
“Then he’ll come back. But don’t let your life pause while he’s gone.”
I wanted to listen to her. I really did.
But how do you press play when the person who used to be your favorite song is no longer playing?
Sometimes I pick up my phone, open our chat, and start typing:
“Hi.”
Just “hi.”
But then I stare at it for a long time and delete it. Because I know if he wanted to talk to me, he would have.
That realization hurts more than anything.
Because silence isn’t always accidental. Sometimes, it’s an answer.
At night, I pray. Not for him to call, not anymore. I just ask God to help me stop hoping. To help me stop checking my phone every few minutes like a fool.
I tell Him, “If he’s not mine anymore, teach me how to let go without hating him. Without hating myself for caring too much.”
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
When it does, I dream of him his smile, his laugh, the way he used to say, “You worry too much, Amara. I’m not going anywhere.”
Then I wake up and realize he already has.
The silence is everywhere now, in the spaces between my thoughts, in the hum of my charger at night, in the way my heart feels heavier when I scroll past his name without seeing it light up.
Sometimes I wonder if he thinks of me. Even for a second.
Does he ever stop and remember the girl who stayed up with him through his lowest nights? The one who prayed for him, defended him, loved him more than her own peace?
Or maybe I’m just another name he deleted to make space for someone new.
They say time heals everything, but time doesn’t erase memories, it just teaches you how to live with them quietly.
And maybe that’s what I’m learning now… how to live in the silence.
Because this silence between us isn’t empty.
It’s full of every word I never said, every call he never made, and every goodbye we never said out loud.
And the truth is, sometimes silence breaks you louder than any words ever could.
- Writer
