R.R. Leone
It never begins loudly.
No slammed doors.
No thunder of words.
Just a pause
that lasts
longer than it should.
At first you tell yourself
they just need space.
Everyone needs space.
So you wait.
But the quiet stretches.
Minutes become hours.
Hours become something heavier.
You replay the last conversation
like a physician studying scans,
searching for the fracture
you might have missed.
Was it that sentence?
That question?
The look on your face when you spoke?
The mind becomes a detective
in a crime scene of memory.
Meanwhile the room fills
with a silence that has weight.
The phone stays dark.
No message. No explanation.
Just absence.
And the strange part is
how silence changes the body.
Your breath grows shallow.
Thoughts circle faster.
The nervous system begins to signal
something it cannot name.
Not anger. Not grief.
Something closer to panic.
Like slipping beneath water
and realizing
no one else noticed.
At first you tread carefully.
You assume air will come back.
A word. A message. A sign of life.
But the surface keeps moving farther away.
And the quiet grows deeper.
You begin to understand something
no one ever teaches you about love.
Connection is oxygen.
And when it disappears suddenly,
the mind does what bodies do underwater:
it fights.
It searches.
It reaches upward for something
that isn't there.
Eventually the conversation returns.
Or it doesn't.
But by then something has changed.
Because silence, once introduced,
leaves a mark.
Not a wound you can see.
Just the memory
of how long you held your breath
before realizing
you were swimming alone.
R.R. Leone
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