After They Left

(When silence feels like a second heartbreak, what will happen when they will left me and find something beautiful in their life?)

It’s quiet now.

Not the kind of quiet that heals—

Not peaceful, not gentle—

But the kind of quiet that buzzes

like static in your chest,

like memories trapped inside your walls

that won’t stop echoing.

They’re gone.

Not in a dramatic exit,

not in anger,

not even in finality.

Just… gone.

Slipped slowly

into a chapter I wasn’t written into.

They didn’t slam the door—

they just drifted away

so gently

that I didn’t even notice

until the silence got too loud.

And it hurts.

Not the kind of pain that rages.

But the kind that sits heavy in your bones

like old weather.

The kind that turns up when the notifications stay dark,

when the server is quiet,

when your screen glows but no one says your name anymore.

I still hear their laughter.

I still remember the sound of their typing,

the dumb jokes that made no sense,

the “Hiyo! u good?” at 3 a.m.

just because they noticed I was still online.

They were my comfort.

The reason I didn’t spiral

after that stranger invaded my peace.

The ones who, unknowingly,

stitched me back together

with each chaotic meme and

each half-serious “take care, fr.”

And now?

Now it’s just me.

Reading messages that no longer move.

Scrolling through chats

that used to light up like fireflies

and now look like abandoned houses.

They didn’t leave with big goodbyes.

There was no final moment.

Just slower replies,

shorter texts,

until it felt like I was messaging into a canyon

with no echo coming back.

And I get it.

I really do.

Life moves on.

People grow.

They find new friends,

new routines,

new places to call home.

But it doesn’t stop it from hurting.

It’s like watching a balloon drift into the sky.

You let go for one second—

and suddenly, it’s gone.

Not because it wanted to hurt you.

But because you just couldn’t hold on tight enough.

Some nights,

I still open the server.

Not to talk.

Just to look.

To pretend.

To remember how it used to feel

when I had a place among them.

They were younger than me—

but they made me feel seen.

Understood.

Like I wasn’t just surviving,

but maybe, slowly, healing.

And now…

I feel like I lost that light again.

So I fill the silence.

With music that knows how I feel.

With writing.

With words that hug the parts of me

no one asks about anymore.

I sit with the ache.

Let it burn.

Then let it rest beside me.

Because it’s mine now.

Some nights,

I still scroll up.

Back to the silly chaos.

Back to the random voice calls,

the playlists we made,

the nights we said, “brb” and never really came back.

I don’t message them.

I want to.

But I don’t.

Because I know—

they’ve moved on.

And my sadness doesn’t fit

in the life they’re building now.

They’re probably smiling somewhere.

Sending memes to someone new.

Laughing in a group call

with people who make their heart feel safe.

And I’m happy for them.

I really am.

But I can’t lie.

There’s a hole where they used to be.

I loved them quietly.

Not romantically.

Not obsessively.

Just… purely.

As someone who found hope

in voices I never saw,

but trusted more than anyone.

And now,

I send my love in the softest way:

Through poems like this.

Through blessings I whisper

when I see their profile picture still there,

but never green again.

I forgive them.

For not needing me anymore.

For healing.

For finding joy where I couldn’t follow.

That’s what I do.

That’s always what I do.

I stay.

Even after they leave.

I keep the room clean

in case they ever come back.

Keep the light on

in case they get lost and need warmth again.

But I don’t expect them to.

Not anymore.

Because I’ve learned—

Sometimes people are only chapters,

not the whole book.

Sometimes love means

letting someone grow

beyond the space you held for them.

So I grow too.

Alone.

Slowly.

In silence.

I’m learning to fill the space they left.

Not erase it—

but honor it.

With playlists that carry our memories.

With words I never said out loud.

With quiet that doesn’t always punish me.

Sometimes it still stings.

Of course it does.

But sometimes,

it feels peaceful.

To know I had something real,

even if only for a season.

And if by some strange miracle,

they ever read this—

if they ever find these words

buried in the folds of the internet—

I hope they know

they mattered.

That they saved someone

without even knowing it.

That their kindness

was the one soft place

in a life full of sharp corners.

And that even now,

after they’ve gone,

after they’ve become ghosts

in the house of my memory—

I love them.

From a distance.

In a poem.

In silence.

Because that’s how I love:

I stay,

even after they leave.

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