"The most painful thing is not when someone leaves, but when someone is still there... yet no longer knows how to reach them."
...
There are farewells that don’t come in one big explosion. They creep in like fog slowly covering the view. Forming themselves from all the things we never said. From all the worries we never shared. From the fears we kept tightly locked away, as if talking about them would end everything right then and there.
And for the past few weeks, we had been living in that space—between wanting to speak but being afraid of losing each other. Every morning I woke up carrying the same sentence in my chest:
"This relationship can still be saved, right?"
But I never truly dared to ask. And you never offered an answer, as if we had silently agreed not to talk about something we both already knew.
We walked the same path, but it seemed we had both started to forget how to walk side by side.
...
In the past, every word from you felt like a comforting blanket. Now everything sounded like formality. Like a task that had to be completed. Like two people still updating each other only because... it was a habit, no longer longing.
I’m working overtime, don’t forget to eat, okay.
Yeah, I already ate.
Are you off tomorrow?
I don’t know yet.
No anger. No arguments. But no warmth either. Everything was fine, but it felt so cold. Our sentences became like fragile bridges. They existed, but they could no longer truly connect us.
We became careful about everything. Afraid of saying the wrong thing. Afraid of the wrong tone. Even the word “love” that used to slip so easily from our lips now had to go through many considerations in our heads.
Is this still appropriate to say?
Will she reply the way she used to?
Or will she just stay silent?
Or reply with just an emoji?
I knew you often took a deep breath while typing something, then deleted it before I could see what you wanted to say.
I did the same. Many times I wanted to be honest. Many times I wanted to say that I missed the old you. But it always ended with me deleting everything before sending.
Because I was afraid that if those words reached you, they would become the beginning of the end.
Every night before sleep, I talked to you in my own mind. I stared at the ceiling of my room and imagined you beside me.
"You looked really tired today. I want to hug you. But I’m afraid you’ll pull away even more."
"I don’t know where to start. But I know we’re no longer the us from before."
"I still care about you so much. But I’m tired of being the person who always pretends everything is okay."
And I’m sure in your head there was another voice too. A voice that wanted to say:
"I want everything to go back to how it was. But why are you pulling away more? Do you also feel that we’ve become different?"
We loved each other inside our own heads. But we weren’t brave enough to love with open lips.
Because we were afraid that after that honesty was spoken, all that would remain was the reality that we really had to part ways.
...
You never asked,
"Do you still want to be with me?"
And I never said,
"I feel like you’re slowly getting used to life without me."
We no longer talked about the future. There were no more sentences like:
"If I move, do you want to come with me?"
Or "If I stay here, will you wait for me?"
We talked about the future as if we were each standing on two different stages. I was busy with my thoughts. You were busy with your world. Without realizing it, we were preparing ourselves to no longer be part of each other.
You stopped using the word “we” in your stories. I stopped making you the main character in my writing. But every time I looked into your eyes, I knew the love was still there.
Trapped there. Imprisoned. Looking for an exit door that wouldn’t hurt anyone.
I wrote letters to you every day in my head. About the day I realized you were still everything, but the world no longer provided space for the two of us. About how much I missed being your home. About how tired I was of being the person who held everything inside my chest.
But those letters were always left unsent.
Because I knew you were also writing letters in your head. Letters with the same feelings. Wanting to speak, but afraid that afterward there would be no more “us.”
Maybe you saved those letters in a folder named “for later.”
Even though we both knew that “later” never came.
We suffer in Silence
So, we chose to suffer.
To suffer in a form we didn’t understand. To be together in silence. In cracks that had become too loud to ignore.
We still walked side by side, but no longer held hands.