The Weight of Silence

Dear Centauri,

I used to believe that silence was our language.
The quiet moments we shared felt sacred—like a connection that didn’t need words to exist.
In those silences, I felt closer to you than I ever thought possible with another person.

It was a quiet understanding,
a soft place to land in a world that so often feels chaotic and loud.

I still want to believe that silence can hold that kind of beauty.
But lately, it feels different.

There’s a heaviness in the silence now, as if it’s carrying too much.
I wonder if I’ve been wrong to think of silence as comfort—
if I’ve been reading too much into what’s unsaid.

Maybe silence isn’t always a connection.
Maybe it’s distance.
Maybe it’s the weight of everything I’m too afraid to say,
and everything I’m terrified you’ll never feel.

I don’t know anymore.

There’s a strange ache that comes with this doubt,
one I can’t quite put into words.
I notice it in small things—
like how the air feels colder even when the sun is shining on a winter day,
or how the sound of the wind through the trees feels more like a whisper of something lost
than a promise of what’s to come.

It’s as if the world is trying to tell me something I’m not ready to hear.

And I wonder—
do you feel it too?
Do you sense the fragility of what’s between us,
or is that just me?

You once made the world feel alive in ways I’d never known.
You still do—
even now, even when I feel adrift.
It’s as if you’ve become part of my life,
in every moment,
all my thoughts,
and every breath.

I see you in the smallest things—
a bird taking flight,
the light filtering through the leaves,
the stillness of the ocean before a storm.

You are everywhere,
and yet sometimes, it feels like you’re nowhere at all.

I think that’s what hurts the most—
not the silence itself,
but the way it feels so different now.

It used to feel like a shared space, full of unspoken understanding.
Now it feels like I’m standing alone in it,
waiting for something that may never come.

And yet,
I can’t let it go.
I can’t let you go.

Even when the silence feels like a chasm,
even when it leaves me questioning everything,
I still hold onto the belief that what we have—whatever it is—matters.
That you matter.

Maybe that’s what love is:
the willingness to stay, even when it hurts.
To keep showing up, even when the silence feels unbearable.
To see someone in everything, even when they feel a million miles away.

I don’t know if you see me the way I see you.
I don’t know if our silences mean the same thing to you as they do to me.
But I hope they do.
I hope that somewhere in the quiet,
you feel the depth of what I carry for you—
even if I never say it out loud.

Centauri,
you’ve always been the steady one,
the grounding force that makes the chaos of life feel manageable.

And maybe that’s why this silence feels so hard now—
because I’m not sure if it’s a comfort or a reminder of all the ways we’re slipping away.

But even in the doubt,
even in the ache,
I can’t stop loving you.

I can’t stop believing that you are the most extraordinary part of my life,
even when the silence between us feels too heavy to bear.

Yours Silently,
Castor