Then, we stayed silent as the crevices in our relationship narrowed. We remained still, unable to speak, unable to act on the labyrinth of emotions that was us. Unable to exhibit the emotional turmoil we went through in those two weeks when we were apart. It felt as if someone was beckoning to me. It wasn’t him, it was the silence that spoke volumes about us. The silence that was so immensely tremendous, it could move mountains, could shatter glasses. The silence was as loud as the gust of wind on a rainy day. The scattered memories, like scattered words encompassed me as sorrow gripped me and took me in its arms. The arms I go so often to, the arms that call me time and again. Silence is always a prerequisite to an explosion, a moment so excruciatingly crucial, it makes you tremble, tremble with oddity, curiosity, pain. Pain. Is silence pain or  is pain a silent undercurrent? Do we create pain or does the pain create us? I’ll never know. 



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