Living with What’s Gone

Today, I woke up to a silence that didn’t just fill the room—it clung to me, wrapped itself around my ribs, and whispered in that hollow space where my heart used to feel full. It wasn’t the soft kind of quiet. It was sharp, brutal, and unrelenting, the kind that sinks into your bones and makes you ache in places you forgot existed.

I thought I’d learned how to live with it, how to bury it under routine and motion, but no. It crept back in like it always does, uninvited and heavy, dragging memories behind it like chains. It gnawed at scars I thought had long since healed, and I hated how easy it was for them to tear open again.

So I sat in the dark. Crying, like I always do when it becomes too much. The halls stretched on endlessly, their stillness mocking me, and yet I wandered them like I might stumble across something—anything—that would make this emptiness feel less consuming. My fingertips brushed against the walls, the rough texture grounding me, a painful reminder of how far I’ve come without actually going anywhere at all.

And then, like clockwork, I ended up in front of the mirror. That stupid, warped old thing. It’s been here a while, and somehow, it knows me better than I know myself. I stood there, staring at my reflection as if it held answers, but all I saw were hollowed eyes staring back, empty and unfamiliar. A stranger. A shadow of someone who once knew how to feel alive.

I reached out to touch the glass. It was icy, biting at my fingertips, and I thought—just for a second—that maybe I’d feel something. But of course, all it did was echo back the cold that’s already inside me. I closed my eyes, but that only made it worse. The memories came rushing in, sharper and crueler than anything the silence could do. Voices I’ll never hear again. Hands I’ll never hold. Warmth that’s been gone so long it feels like a cruel trick my mind plays, over and over.

"You left," I whispered, the words barely audible, as if I were afraid the silence would steal them, too. "And you took everything with you."

The mirror didn’t answer. Of course it didn’t. But it felt like it was waiting—like it wanted me to spill everything, to confess every dark corner I’ve been avoiding. And maybe I did. I stood there, the weight of it all pressing against my chest, and finally said, "I keep waiting for you. For something to shatter this endless, crushing nothing. But it doesn’t. It never does."

The tears came then, spilling over before I even realized I was crying. I laughed, sharp and bitter, the sound grating against the quiet like breaking glass. "I’m such an idiot," I spat, my voice trembling with anger and grief. "I keep thinking you’ll come back, that I’ll find some piece of you left behind. But there’s nothing, is there? Just this… void."

For a second, I wanted to smash the mirror. One swing and it would shatter, scattering shards across the floor. Maybe the sound would drown out the silence, just for a moment. But I didn’t. My arms felt like lead, useless and too tired to care. Even destruction seemed like too much effort.

"What now?" I whispered to the empty room, my voice thin and fragile. The question hung in the air, unanswered, and I hated how much the silence hurt. So I sat down, right there on the cold floor, my back against the wall, and let the quiet press in around me like a suffocating blanket.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Minutes, hours—does it even matter? The silence stayed, constant and merciless, a grim reminder that this is all I have left. Just me, the ghost of who I used to be, and the unyielding echo of everything I’ve lost.