Two gray marks. That cruel underline—
proof I existed in your periphery,
that you chose the nothing.
My words hung there,
confirmation of my own dismissal.
The screen stayed dark.
Silence is a blade that cuts without lifting a hand,
the kind of wound that doesn’t bleed
but throbs deep under the ribs
where pride pretends to live.
I replayed what I wrote—too raw, too honest, too eager—
humiliation coiled through me,
a slow tightening,
like fingers hooking into the soft part of my throat.
The phone lit up again, not with you.
Some app clawing for attention.
My jaw twisted at the irony.
I kept scrolling through your thread,
every message a fossil from someone I barely recognized—
me, softened, wide-open,
unguarded in ways I swore I’d never be again.
Your silence wasn’t absence, it was a choice,
and that truth barked through my chest
like a dog chained too long.
I told myself: one hour, then I let it go.
But hours passed and I was still anchored to that screen,
still checking for the ellipsis,
still composing something, anything,
even a lie dressed up as kindness.
The shame curled hot beneath my skin
because I knew, really knew,
that my dignity had packed a bag
the moment I sent the third unanswered message.
And yet I sat there, marinating in it,
because wanting is a sickness
and I hadn’t found the antidote,
hadn’t found the exit.
Expectation is its own addiction.
I tried to distract myself—
music, cold water, pacing the apartment like a wild thing—
but every damn minute circled back
to that single truth: you saw me,
and still wanted nothing.
Night stretched long and wire-thin,
my thoughts looping like faulty film,
replaying the moment your attention
faltered and never returned.
By the time the sun rose,
I felt hollowed out,
scraped clean by the knowledge
that closure would not arrive
wrapped in your voice,
your apology,
your anything.
I whispered a curse into the morning air,
not at you but at the piece of me
still kneeling in front of a screen,
begging for a flicker of connection.
And when I finally deleted the thread,
my thumb trembled—
not from loss,
but from the furious relief
of ending a vigil
that only humiliated me more.