---
It wasn't quiet.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't the kind of goodbye that leaves like a soft wind brushing against the skin.
It was a storm. A crash. A slammed door that echoed down the hallway and stayed in the walls long after you left.
I still hear it sometimes. That door. That silence after.
That's how I knew we weren't going to survive, Luca.
The night you left, I didn't cry at first. I stood there, barefoot on the cold tiles of our kitchen, staring at the space where your sneakers used to be—those faded white ones you always said made you feel like a rockstar. You took them.
You didn't take the mug I painted for you on your birthday, though. Or the photo we took under the stars in Durban. Or the voice note I sent you the night before, whispering: "No matter what happens, don't shut me out."
You shut me out anyway.
The air felt heavier. I opened the windows, but it didn't help. The ocean was just a black stretch in the distance, and for once, the waves didn't soothe me. They sounded like you—restless, distant, untouchable.
I don't remember falling asleep. But I remember waking up.
I remember the ache in my chest.
The kind that doesn't come from heartbreak.
The kind that comes from absence.
The absence of your voice. Your laugh. Your chaos. Your love—if it ever was love.
I tried to call. Once.
Your phone rang, then went straight to voicemail.
I didn't leave a message. What could I say?
"Come back?"
"Why?"
"How could you?"
"I'm still here."
No. None of those felt right.
So instead, I sat at the easel.
Painted the sky in all the colors I thought I'd find in you.
All of them bled.
I named it "Unfinished Silence."
---
The days blurred after that.
My sister Nia came over two days later. She brought ice cream and fury.
"Amaya, you're not going to waste another breath on him," she snapped, slamming her keys on the table. "He doesn't deserve your art, your tears, or your damn softness."
But I couldn't help it.
Because when you love someone that deeply, the silence after they leave is not quiet.
It screams.
It echoes in the corners of your soul.
It asks you questions you can't answer.
Why wasn't I enough?
Why didn't he fight for me?
Why did he leave without looking back?
---
A week passed.
I finally opened your last message.
> Luca: "Don't hate me for this. I just can't… breathe here anymore. I need space. I love you. But I have to go."
Love.
What a cruel word.
How do you say you love someone and still leave them gasping for air?
I wish you had screamed.
I wish you had cursed, or blamed, or accused.
But you left so quietly, so finally, and still managed to break every part of me louder than a thousand sirens.
---
Tonight, I wrote a poem. For you.
> Your goodbye wasn't a whisper,
It was the echo in an empty house,
The hum of what used to be home.
And now… I paint with silence.
Now… I heal with trembling hands.
Now… I try to live without the part of me you still hold.
And yet…
I still look out the window at night.
Just in case you come back.
Not to stay.
But to explain.