It didn't end with a goodbye.
There was no last call.
No last message.
No final sentence tying everything together like stories usually do.
It ended the way winter arrives —
quietly, gradually, without anyone noticing the exact moment warmth disappears.
At first, I didn't realize anything had changed.
Our conversations still existed.
Our chat was still there.
His name still sat at the top of my screen.
Only…
The pauses grew longer.
Replies came hours later.
Then a day later.
Then sometimes not at all.
I told myself he was busy.
People get busy.
People have lives.
People don't owe you constant attention.
I understood that.
I really did.
But understanding something doesn't stop it from hurting.
One night, I caught myself staring at our chat again.
No new message.
I locked my phone.
Unlocked it.
Checked again.
Still nothing.
I laughed quietly under my breath.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was pathetic.
I used to be the girl who didn't wait for anyone.
Now I was someone who checked her phone like it held oxygen.
Days passed.
The silence stayed.
It didn't scream.
It didn't accuse.
It just… existed.
And somehow that was worse.
Because silence doesn't give explanations.
It doesn't give closure.
It doesn't give you anything to fight.
It only gives you space.
Too much space.
Enough space for your thoughts to echo.
I sat by the window that evening, knees pulled to my chest, phone resting in my palm. The screen was dark, reflecting my face faintly — like even my own reflection wasn't fully there.
I opened our chat.
Scrolled up.
There we were.
Laughing.
Teasing.
Talking for hours.
Sharing things I had never told anyone else.
Proof that it was real.
Proof that I didn't imagine it.
My thumb hovered over his name.
I could text him.
I could say hi.
I could ask how he was.
I could pretend nothing had changed.
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I knew something had.
And I was afraid if I spoke…
the silence would answer.
I used to think heartbreak would feel loud.
Shattering.
Dramatic.
Unbearable.
But this?
This was quiet.
This was sitting in a room full of air and still feeling like I couldn't breathe.
This was rereading old conversations instead of making new ones.
This was missing someone who was still alive, still out there, still posting, still laughing—
Just not with me.
A notification sound rang suddenly.
My heart jumped so fast it hurt.
I looked down.
Not him.
Just a random app alert.
I swallowed.
It shouldn't matter this much.
He wasn't mine.
He never was.
But feelings don't care about technicalities.
They don't care about logic.
They only care that once — even if briefly — someone felt like home.
I placed my phone beside me and leaned my head against the wall.
The room was quiet.
My chest was quiet.
Everything was quiet.
And that's when I finally understood something:
He didn't break my heart.
He simply stopped holding it.
Outside, the night moved on like nothing had changed. Cars passed. Voices faded. The world continued breathing.
So I did too.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like someone learning how to exist without the person they never actually had.