2.1 KiB
The Intimacy of Never Speaking Again
Oct 22, 2025
There is a certain intimacy in never speaking again. Not the soft kind people romanticize in love stories, but a quieter, stranger intimacy. The kind that comes only after being fully seen. Because intimacy isn't just late night conversations or bodies curled on a couch. It's the rare moment two people allow themselves to be known without performance. It's layered, deliberate. It's to be truly, dangerously known.
People love the idea of "right person, wrong time," but fate wasn't the author here. There was no cosmic theft and no tragic inevitability. I made the choice. I ended it. I didn't give you a say, or a vote, or even the dignity of mutual unraveling. I walked away first. Not because I didn't care, but because I cared more than I was capable of holding. You were singular. Not perfect. Not destined. Just unrepeatable in a way that will follow me for the rest of my life.
The silence that followed became its own intimacy, sharper than touch, heavier than memory. Silence is not forgetting. Silence is remembering without relief. It is choosing not to reopen a wound, not because the feeling is gone, but because it's still too alive. Silence after intimacy is both a boundary and a burial ground. Some people simply do not come around twice.
And so we carry a private universe no one else will ever witness. To speak now would dilute it. Casual contact would cheapen it. Small talk would vandalize what was once sacred. When two people who knew each other that deeply choose not to speak, the silence becomes the final shared secret. It means you will build a life that has nothing to do with me, and I will do the same. One day, someone will ask about you, and I'll shrug like your name is just another name. They won't know there was a time my whole world bent around you. They won't know the cost of what I keep in silence.
But I will know. And that knowing will stay, quiet as snowfall, heavy as stone.
We will not speak again. That is our last intimacy. Not closure. Not peace.
Just the echoing truth that
I lost something irreplaceable,
and I was the one who ended it.