The Way Silence Sings

Fairouz reminds me of beginnings.

Of something sacred starting

like rain on parched land,

like my name finally pronounced the way it was meant to be spoken.

It was always early morning.

Always you.

Coffee steaming between us,

your hand in mine like a vow we never had to say out loud.

We didn’t speak much

we didn’t need to.

Fairouz did the talking,

and our silence sounded like peace.

Your fingers traced the rim of your mug

like they were writing music in the air.

I used to think love was fireworks

but you made it a quiet song

sung in a language only we understood.

Now,

silence has become our new melody.

And I swear,

it hums louder than Fairouz ever did.

It climbs the walls,

sits at the edge of the bed,

follows me into every room

like a shadow wearing your shape.

You still drink coffee in the morning

but you don’t offer me a cup.

Your hands don’t reach for mine anymore,

they hold your phone like it’s something holy,

and I’ve become a bystander to your attention.

Fairouz still plays sometimes.

But now she sounds like grief.

Like she’s singing only to me,

reminding me

of the space where you used to breathe.

And here’s the part that makes me ache the most:

you never understand the impact

of the little things you say.

The way your words

sometimes land like feathers,

but cut like glass.

And when I try to tell you

when I gather the courage to put my hurt

into something you might recognize as language

you tell me I’m imagining it.

You say I’m sensitive.

You say everything is okay.

And suddenly I’m the one

who doesn’t understand.

You sit there calm,

while I unravel,

feeling like a storm made of apology.

You look at me like I’m breaking something

you never meant to touch.

And I don’t know how to make you see

that being hurt by you

doesn’t make me broken.

It makes me human.

It makes this love

realer than either of us wanted it to be.

The love didn’t leave like a storm

it didn’t slam doors or throw dishes.

It just softened.

Like a song turned down slowly.

Like hands letting go gently,

because they’re too tired to hold on.

I still sit with my coffee.

Still whisper your name in the steam.

Still wait for your hand to find mine again,

even though I know

silence has taken your place.

And somehow,

it sings

beautifully.

Brutally.

Exactly in tune

with everything

we might have lost.