Hey,
I don't know why I'm writing this.
Not like you'll read it. Or that I'll send it to you.
But tonight, it feels like it's the only thing I can do, that doesn't make the silence worse.
Maybe because there's no one else to say it to. Or maybe because saying it to myself doesn't feel like enough anymore. Or because somewhere, deep down, a part of me still wants to believe you'll feel this— like some invisible thread between us still exists, even if twisted.
It's been over a month.
More than a goddamn month since everything went silent. Since the last time your name showed up on my screen. Since I stopped waiting for it to.
Mostly stopped forcefully, anyway.
I counted once. Told myself I wouldn't again. Then I counted again, and again, and again. Everyday. Without a miss. But today, the number stuck to my head like a warning sign I couldn't peel off.
I do remember the last thing I said. Because it was always me. That day as well. You didn't even send me one last message, even for the last time. Just left mine there, on read. Just hanging there. I guess I should be glad that you at least read it right!?Haha.
Funny, isn't it? All this pain, all these words of mine, which I remember word by word. Letter by letter. And still, I can't even quote the moment how we ended. Maybe because there wasn't one. Just a slow fade. Like background music dying out without anyone noticing.
Some days I almost convince myself I'm fine. I talk more, eat on time. I scroll without sinking. I even laugh, once or twice, when something's stupid enough. But there's this void inside me that always stays untouched. Like a room in a house you never walk into anymore but still keep locked. Just in case.
That's where you are now. It's yours.
A part of me doesn't want to enter there, but I also can't tear it down. Another part just wants to visit it with the hope that, all of these are some bad dreams, that this would soon be over, and you'll be back to me again.
I keep thinking about how strange it is— that someone can mean so much and then mean nothing at all. Not gradually. Not after a proper ending. Just… suddenly. Like a switch flipped in your heart and I didn't get the memo. Like I was a show you stopped watching halfway through, never wondering how it ended. Just got bored and stopped giving a damn about it.
Sometimes, I think that maybe you're doing okay. Probably better. Maybe this doesn't feel like anything to you anymore. Maybe it never did.
But me? I still carry the weight of your absence like it's stitched into the lining of my clothes. It moves with me, presses on my skin when I sit still for too long. Like something I can't wash off.
I don't feel like a person anymore. More like a version. A blurred-out copy. I still do things— eat, brush, scroll, reply to messages when I have to. But I do them the way people sleepwalk. Like I'm not really here. Like I'm living in the space between what I feel and what I can't afford to say. And now… I think I'm disappearing too. From myself, mostly.
You told me once you weren't good at keeping people. Maybe I should've listened better.
But it's not that I didn't stay, it's just that you didn't let me.
The thing is— I wasn't asking to be kept. You didn't even have to do anything, and I would've still stayed with you. I was just hoping to be remembered. But you didn't even want that, did you?
I never needed grand gestures. Just replies. Proof that I wasn't screaming into a void while calling it a conversation. Now, it's all silence.
You'd be surprised how heavy silence can be.
There's no anger. I thought there would be. Thought I'd resent you, or grow bitter with time. That I'll move on. But NO. Just this dull ache. Not sharp enough to scream, not soft enough to ignore. An eternal pain.
Sometimes I write messages and delete them. Not out of pride. But because it's pointless.
You wouldn't reply. Or worse— you'd leave it for 4/5 days, or more, and then, reply like nothing ever happened. And that, I think, would break me more than the silence ever did.
Now I carry all the things I wanted to say in my chest like they're stuck in traffic, unable to reach the exit.
I wanted to tell you that your absence didn't feel quiet— it screamed inside me, echoed. Tore my heart apart. Bled into everything.
That I still replay your voice notes in my head, because deleting them would feel like erasing a part of myself.
I miss things I can't even explain to people.
Like the way you used to text, "Are you okay?" even before I said anything.
The way you remembered things I casually mentioned and brought them up weeks later. You have no idea how happy that made me feel. And the way you never made me feel like too much— until, suddenly, I was.
Now, I overthink even silence.
Now, I scroll past people and feel like a ghost in my own memories.
I stare at my reflection and wonder what part of me pushed you away— because no one just stops caring. Not unless they wanted to stop long before they actually did.
I still check your profile sometimes. Just once a day. Maybe twice. At best five. Never more than that, I promise.
Just to see if you're still… there.
You are. But not for me.
Not in the way that matters.
I wanted to tell you that you didn't have to stay eternally. But I wish you had left differently.
Wish you gave me something to hold onto...besides confusion.
I think I just wanted to feel like I mattered. Like even if everything went wrong, I still left a dent in your world. Somewhere. Some small, quiet bruise of presence. Something you'd touch on accident and remember me. Maybe you will even revisit it someday, and think of me.
But the truth? You moved on so quietly, I convinced myself we were never real.
Even that tiny hope is gone now.
That's what stings. Not the loss.
The rewrite.
The way you erased me so gently I barely noticed until I was already gone from your story.
And still, here I am.
Writing this letter.
In a dark room, on a tired night, while the rest of the world is asleep.
Writing to someone who probably doesn't even flinch at my name anymore. Let alone think about it!
And I don't think I'm asking for anything anymore. Not closure. Not explanation. DEFINITELY Not Pity.
I guess this is my way of saying it's okay now. Not healed. Not moved on. But… breathing.
Maybe this is healing. Or maybe it's the part right before it. I don't know.
But for now, this is all I've got.
You won't get this letter. I won't send it.
You won't read these words. You won't even know it exists.
But it does. You won't wonder if they're about you.
But they are.
And maybe that's enough.
Because even if you forgot, I didn't.
Not yet. Not anytime soon.
And maybe, NEVER.
— Me
To someone I gave my heart to, who gave her heart to someone else.
"There are things I wish I could say to you.
But I've settled for silence,
because it's the only thing you ever answered with."