What the Silence Didn’t Say

We built a world from side glances and late-night truths, a secret language of laughter, the kind that blooms only when trust has roots. You were the mirror I leaned into without flinching.

But somewhere, between what was said and what wasn’t, you folded my name into stories I was never allowed to hear. I felt it like a change in weather, something shifting behind my back, a chill I couldn't name.

You unstitched me quietly, like someone learning how to forget.

I replayed it all, the way your smile didn’t reach your eyes anymore, the long silences you dressed up as peace. I called it doubt, but it was already distance.

And betrayal? It isn't thunder. It's the soft hum of a blade you thought they'd never use. It’s the silence after you realize someone was only loyal to the version of you they could use.

I thought we were made of something no storm could fray. But love, even in friendship, requires both hands holding, and yours had let go long before I opened mine.

So now, I walk lighter. Not because I am healed, but because I no longer carry what was never meant for me.

If we ever meet again, I won’t ask why. I will only thank you, for the lesson in endings, and the grace of walking away without burning what remains.