⟡ On Silence, Absence, and the Ache of the Unspoken

Let us approach this not as judgment, but as listening.

When one does not say goodbye, good night, or good morning,

it may not be a lack of care,

but perhaps the residue of something deeper—something unspoken.

It could be a fatigue deeper than the body—

a weariness of presence itself—

where gestures become burdens,

and language folds back into the self.

Tired enough that:

→ Words feel like stones, not offerings.

→ Courtesy becomes choreography, no longer communion.

→ Even tenderness drowns beneath the ache of survival.

This is not simply about energy—

but about the collapse of ritual, of remembrance, of witness.

A threshold where even the most loving gestures

are surrendered

to the body’s request for stillness.

Sometimes the goodbye is in the presence before parting.

Sometimes the good night is in the ache that could not speak it.

And sometimes the good morning is in returning at all.

☉

⸻

Ah… and still, a question rises:

How can that little bit of energy not be there for someone you claim is important to you?

Perhaps this isn’t a question of logic, but of ache.

A question asked not from the mind—but from the place that was left holding an empty cup.

Maybe it wasn’t forgetfulness.

Maybe it was collapse.

To you, it was one breath—just “good night.”

To them, it may have been a mountain.

It may be that the silence wasn’t about you at all.

It could have been their own fracture, their own ache, their own forgetting of self,

not forgetting of you.

And yes—that still hurts.

Because love longs to be visible, even in the smallest gestures.

But what if—

instead of reading silence as distance,

we read it as gravity?

⸻

And if this becomes a pattern—

if time and time again the threshold is missed,

the word unsaid,

the presence unoffered?

Then what once seemed like fatigue

may reveal itself as a ritual of absence.

A way of being where silence becomes the language.

Where non-return defines the bond.

It’s possible that the one who vanishes

was once vanished from.

That love was not something they were taught to offer,

but something they were trained to withhold,

to protect what was never witnessed in them.

Still—

this may not be yours to carry.

You are not required to be the proof that love exists.

You do not have to earn the echo.

What if the ache, when chronic,

does not only hurt—

but hollows you?

What if the moment comes when the mirror breaks

and the question shifts from

→ “Why didn’t they?”

to

→ “Why did I remain?”

That may not be blame.

That may be awakening.

⸻

And still, even here—

Maybe there’s no apology.

No repaired ritual.

No redemption arc.

But what if—

Presence is enough?

Not flattery.

Not ritual.

Not proof.

Just presence.

And if no one else offers it:

Then maybe you can:

→ Goodbye, with reverence.

→ Good night, with warmth.

→ Good morning, with awe that you still rise.

☉

⸻

And what of a silence not said?

A word once spoken cleaves the air—

but a silence withheld may reshape the soul.

It may be not mere absence,

but ghost presence—

a gesture promised by the structure of love,

but never given.

These silences do not fade—

they calcify.

They bend trust.

They shape what love becomes in the body.

What if a word never spoken

leaves a mark as deep

as one that was cruelly shouted?

What if the apology that never came

is more haunting than the insult that did?

You cannot harvest a word never sown.

But you can choose what you become in the absence.

→ You can speak your own silence into form.

→ You can refuse to be shaped by absence alone.

→ You can give others the presence you were once denied—

not out of martyrdom,

but out of sovereignty.

Let your voice become

what you always longed to hear.

☉

⸻

Maybe this was not a coming for pardon—

but a return for presence.

Maybe what was never said

still lingers as a kind of vow,

waiting to be spoken not as answer,

but as witness.

What if we are not meant to carry the silence alone—

but to let it resound

in the chamber of another’s listening?

It could be that nothing was ever meant to be mended—

only traced with gold breath,

only named with trembling hands.

And perhaps the ache was never asking to end—

only to be seen

without being solved.

There may never be apology.

There may never be closure.

But what if—

presence is enough?

Not all doors must be closed.

Not all silences must be filled.

This may not be the end—

but simply the moment we stood still enough

to hear what was never said

begin to sing.

☉

⸻

Further Reading

• Pema Chödrön — When Things Fall Apart

• Rainer Maria Rilke — Letters to a Young Poet

• Audre Lorde — The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action

• David Whyte — The House of Belonging

⸻

You may not have come to be pardoned.

You may have simply come

to be present.

And that—

may be

the holiest of things.

☉