By Choitalyk Ruman
I used to wonder about the quiet ones,
the souls who slipped into silence
without goodbye or explanation.
I mistook their absence for apathy,
their distance for disregard.
But now I understand.
Some don’t go quiet out of pride,
they go quiet for survival.
They vanish not because they stopped caring,
but because caring had worn them thin.
They retreat to breathe.
To heal.
To listen to the sound of their own heartbeat
without the echo of expectations.
Silence, for them,
is not a weapon.
It is a refuge.
A bandage wrapped around a tired spirit.
And when they return
(not with noise, but with calm)
you’ll notice the change:
Their words softer,
their laughter lighter,
their boundaries unshakable.
They did not disappear to hurt anyone
they disappeared to save themselves.
And now I see it clearly:
Sometimes the bravest kind of love
is the love you give yourself
in the stillness of your own company.
Sometimes the truest return
requires leaving first.