【separated】In the quiet of a late afternoon, when the world seemed to hold its breath, she sat by the window, watching the shadows stretch across the floor. The silence was heavy, not the kind that comforts, but the kind that weighs on the soul. She had always been good at keeping things in — emotions, thoughts, memories. But today, something inside her felt like it had finally cracked.
It wasn’t a dramatic break, no shouting or tears. It was more like a slow unraveling, a quiet separation that had been building for months. Not of love, but of connection. The kind that happens when two people stop seeing each other clearly, even though they’re still in the same room.
He had started to disappear. Not physically, but in the way he spoke, in the way he looked away when she tried to meet his eyes. He was there, but not really. And she, in turn, had stopped trying to reach him. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.
She thought about the old days, the laughter, the long conversations that lasted until dawn. They used to be able to talk about anything. Now, even the simplest topics felt like stepping on landmines. One wrong word, and the conversation would fall apart. So she stopped talking. He stopped listening.
The house, once filled with life, now felt like a museum of what used to be. Every object carried a memory, but none of them were shared anymore. The coffee cups, the books, the music — all reminders of a time when they were together, not just existing in the same space.
She wondered if this was how it ended. Not with a final goodbye, but with a slow fade, like a sunset that never quite reaches the horizon. Maybe that’s what separation is — not a single moment, but a series of small, silent departures.
And yet, as she sat there, she didn’t feel angry. Just tired. Tired of pretending, tired of holding on to something that had already slipped through her fingers. Maybe it was time to let go, not with a scream, but with a gentle sigh.
Because sometimes, the hardest thing isn’t ending something. It’s knowing when to stop trying to fix it.
