I sent a sad face,
he sent nothing.
Eight hours of silence
and a filtered selfie
as if my feelings
were too inconvenient
to be acknowledged.

He didn’t ask what was wrong.
He never really did.
He liked the softness,
but never the substance.

He liked being wanted,
but never wanted to show up.
Not when I was vulnerable,
not when I was hurting,
not when I needed more
than a snap of his bed
or a half laugh in my face.

I gave chances in silence,
forgiveness without apology.
I held space where he gave absence.
And still, I stayed.
Until staying
started to hurt more
than the leaving ever could.

So I didn’t block him.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t write a final message.
I just disappeared
the way he always did
when it was my turn to speak.

Let him wonder
why the snaps stopped.
Let him feel the stillness
he used to ignore.

Let him stare at the pending
and realize I’m not.
Not waiting.
Not hoping.
Not folding back into someone
who forgot how to hold me.

I may not have closure,
but I have clarity.

And if silence is the only language
he ever taught me,
then let him hear it
loud and clear.