When Everything Went Quiet Without a Sound
When the door slammed, William didn’t flinch. He sat on an old stool by the wall, barefoot, in a worn-out T-shirt and jeans. A half-drunk cup of tea cooled in his hand. From the hallway came the sound of a key turning in the lock—twice. And that was it. She was gone. With her suitcase. With her hairbrush, makeup bag, the perfume whose scent still lingered in the flat. With her voice, her footsteps, the small morning noises—everything vanished at once. No shouting. No scene. Almost politely.
He stood, slowly walked to the window. Watched as life carried on below on the busy street—kids rode scooters, an elderly woman fed pigeons, a woman briskly walked her terrier. The city lived on, as if unaware his little world had just shattered. Then he sat back down. Didn’t cry. Didn’t call anyone. Didn’t pour a drink. Just sat there, as if none of this was happening to him. Like an audience member lingering in the theatre after the play, hoping the actors might return for one last bow. But the curtain stayed still.
He and Violet had been together eight years. There had been trips, spontaneous nights in a tent, long arguments, reconciliations over tea in the kitchen, laughter through tears. And then—silence. Not because love had ended. But because the words had vanished. The meaning had slipped away. She’d talk—he’d nod without really listening. He’d joke—she wouldn’t hear. Or pretended not to. The quiet became normal. Like an old dressing gown—not pretty, but comfortable.
He’d noticed something slipping away a year ago. At first, he’d tried—flowers, impromptu seaside trips, coffee in bed. And then he’d just accepted it. Like the inevitability of autumn, walking without a scarf, telling himself it wasn’t that cold yet. Until he realised—it was.
Now he was alone. Not bereaved. Not abandoned. Just empty.
He wandered the flat like it was a museum of a lost time. Picked up her things—a hairclip, a compact, a tiny bottle of lavender oil that now scented his palms. Ran fingers over her books, still marked with her place. Didn’t read them—just held them. As if the warmth of her hands still lived in the pages.
In the bathroom—her hairbrush with strands still tangled in it. In the hallway—a scarf left on the hook. He couldn’t tell if she’d left these things on purpose. Or just forgotten. Or wanted him to know she hadn’t quite gone. Not yet.
He went out as evening fell. Walked with no direction. Through old neighbourhoods, past the school he’d once attended. By the bakery where she’d bought his favourite poppy seed buns. The chemist where they’d once picked out cold medicine together. And suddenly, he remembered her by the window once, soaked through, him drying her hair with a towel. She’d whispered:
*”It’s so quiet with you…”*
He’d thought it a compliment. Today, he understood—it had been a scream. Soundless. A plea: *”Talk to me… just once.”*
The next day, he didn’t go to work. The silence in the flat had weight. It pressed on his shoulders, settled in his chest. He moved through the rooms as if afraid to disturb the air.
He opened the wardrobe. Her side almost empty. Almost. One dress still hung there. Blue, with tiny white buttons. He remembered her wearing it to a friend’s birthday. How he’d thought—*lovely*. But never said.
He took it down. Draped it over the chair. And sat opposite it. All morning. All day. As if waiting for someone to walk in. As if the dress was a witness. Or her shadow.
He began to speak. Aloud. Soft, almost whispering. Said all the things he never had. The love he’d felt but not shown. The fear he’d masked with control. The exhaustion of their silence—and his helplessness to break it. He spoke because he couldn’t stay silent anymore. Even if no one was listening.
A week later, he took the bus to her mother’s. Not for hope. For respect. Dropped a thin envelope in the postbox. Wrote that he wouldn’t interfere. Wouldn’t wait. But if—*if*—she ever needed someone… he’d still be there. No conditions. Just… there.
Three months passed. He didn’t call. Didn’t search. Just… lived. Slowly. For the first time in years, he listened to music—not as background noise, but really *heard* it. Noticed the scent of spring. The sound of buds splitting on branches. Began answering questions only after thinking. Began living *outside* himself—not just within.
Then one evening, a knock. Twice. Muffled. Like a key in a lock.
William froze. Then stood. Walked to the door.
Opened it. Violet stood there. Coat half-buttoned. No bag. In her hands—a yellow notebook. That one. With a pen tucked inside.
*”Hi,”* she said softly. *”I reread some things. And I… understood.”*
He didn’t answer. Just stepped aside. Silently. She walked in like she’d never left—just been out a long while. Took off her coat. Looked around. Her gaze landed on the chair.
The dress still hung there.
She touched it. Fingers tracing the fabric. Smiled. Said nothing.
But the room felt warmer. Not from words. From the quiet no longer being his alone.
Sometimes, what we lose isn’t the person—but the sound of them being near. And if we’re lucky, it comes back. No explanations. Just breathing. Just… being there.
