Missing someone you cannot speak of is its own kind of silence. Not because the feeling isn’t real ~ but because it isn’t something the world would understand. So you carry it inward, like something sacred. No messages. No reaching out. No words to give it form.

Only the quiet dialogue that never leaves your heart. They return in subtle ways—
in a passing breeze, in dreams that linger, in the stillness of moments no one else notices.

You don’t miss them out loud. You miss them in the spaces between ~ between what is spoken and what remains unspoken.

And somehow, it is in that silence that they continue to exist.