**When Silence Grew Louder Than Words**
The morning was bitterly cold, as though autumn had barged into London without warning. Thomas packed his things in a quiet that stung more than any argument. No slammed doors, no shouting—just the rustle of neatly folded jumpers, the click of a charger pulled from its socket, the creak of a toothbrush case. He paused by the window, gazing at the dreary courtyard below. Not to say goodbye—but to memorise the way the light caught the peeling paint on the frame, how the old curtain’s shadow draped across the sill. Emily was asleep. Or pretending. Probably pretending—her breathing was too steady, like someone afraid to be touched.
In the kitchen, he flicked the kettle on. His hands were steady, but inside, everything felt shattered—like glass beads spilling from a broken thread. Not pain, not anger, just silence, heavy and suffocating, making it impossible to snap the suitcase shut.
They hadn’t fought. No affairs, no raised voices. They’d simply stopped being whole. As if, day by day, grain by grain, they’d drifted apart without noticing, until a chasm had opened between them, echoing with emptiness.
*”When are you leaving?”* Emily asked, appearing in the doorway. Her voice was calm, almost indifferent, as if she were talking about the suitcase in the corner, not him.
*”Soon,”* Thomas answered, not looking up. He knew if he did, he wouldn’t leave.
She stayed silent. He didn’t turn. That silence held everything—*stay, go, I can’t do this anymore, it should’ve been different*—hanging in the air like the last thread nobody dared grasp.
He left, dropping the key on the hallway table. No glance back, no hesitation. The stairwell smelled of damp, other people’s dinners, and the morning’s bustle—doors slamming somewhere, the clatter of dishes. Thomas descended like he was finishing a familiar game level: no mistakes, no feeling. Inside, he felt hollowed out—clean, but terrifyingly empty.
At first, he stayed with a mate in a cramped flat on the outskirts. Then he rented a room—small, with peeling wallpaper and a bed that creaked with every turn. He started running in the mornings, not because he liked it, but to drown out the hollowness with exhaustion. Shopped at a different supermarket where no one knew his face. Played music too loud even when he wasn’t listening, just to fill the quiet. He changed routes, habits, faces—everything he could. But the silence inside stayed, sitting beside him every night, staring into the dark, refusing to let go.
Emily stayed in their flat. With their curtains. His books on the shelf. His mug, still untouched. The bathroom shelf unchanged, the fridge magnet photo still in place. They’d become strangers—without drama, without betrayal. Just because neither had said the truth in time. Because both had waited for the other to move first.
Three months passed.
They bumped into each other by chance—at the chemist’s on the corner, on a grey afternoon when the street was nearly empty. Thomas was buying plasters and painkillers. Emily—cough syrup and ointment. Their eyes met, and both froze, as if time had stopped.
*”Hi,”* he said, softer than he’d meant.
*”Hi,”* she replied, studying him. *”You’ve lost weight.”*
He shrugged. Wanted to say something light—*work, running, not sleeping*. But he stayed quiet. Paid, left first, forcing himself to walk slowly, as if that could change anything.
Two days later, he texted. Not a question, an offer: *”Coffee. No talking.”* No hope, no expectations. Just sent it. She replied almost instantly. Agreed. Short, no extra words. As if she’d been waiting. Or known he’d write.
They met at a small café by the park. It smelled of fresh pastries, coffee, and something indefinably new, still unwrapped. Thomas watched her—not his anymore, but achingly familiar. Emily looked at him—no anger, no blame, but as though through glass, their old life trapped behind it.
*”I thought you’d come back,”* she said. Calmly, like stating the inevitable.
*”I waited for you to call,”* he answered. Just as steady. No hints. No pleas.
They smiled slightly—bitter but light. Like people who’d understood everything but didn’t know what to do with it.
Sometimes, silence grows between people, not walls. The kind you’re afraid to break—because in it lies the fear of rejection, or the truth you’re not ready to hear.
They didn’t say *”let’s start over.”* Didn’t rush into each other’s arms, didn’t search for words to fix it. Just drank their coffee. Slowly. Each in their own silence. Then left—separate ways. No promises. No looking back.
But an hour later, she texted: *”If you ever want to meet again—I don’t mind.”*
He replied: *”I was about to say the same.”*
It wasn’t about love. Or going back. It was about the silence, finally a little less heavy. About hearing each other—not in words, but in the pauses where there was a little less pain. And a little more hope.
