It’s not about love. It’s not even real attachment. It’s about the emptiness that settles in when someone stops being a part of your daily routine.
Not the person disappears — but the little rituals. The morning “hi,” the random stickers, the “how’s your day?” messages.
It feels like a phantom buzz on your phone — you know nothing’s coming, but you still check.
And then you find yourself sitting in a kind of silence that feels like the end of a concert. The music’s over, the lights are off, the crowd’s gone, but you… stayed.
Nothing dramatic happened. No one owes anyone anything. But there’s that strange, aching pause.
One that no playlist, no rebound conversation, not even chocolate can fill.
You open the chat, stare at the last message… and say nothing.
Even though you could. Even though you want to.
But you don’t. Because if you text first, it means you still care. It means you’re vulnerable.
And so you both stay silent. Each with your pride. Each with your own version of goodbye.
And that silence? That’s the loudest kind of heartbreak.