Soft ghosting
They fade like twilight, answering less, caring less, until you’re left staring at the dark.
Think of it as a slow, cruel winter rolling in: their texts once flared like bonfires, now they’re just emojis—icy little thumbs-up that never melt into conversation. Each reply takes longer, colder, until the last flake falls and you realize you’ve been left outside the house you thought you were building together. It’s ghosting wearing mittens, pretending the frostbite doesn’t hurt.
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The Quiet That Remade Me: Choosing Me After He Vanished
The world tipped and stayed tipped. The kitchen lay silent and heavy, dreams slipping through the cracks. He wasn’t coming back the way I hoped, yet a stubborn flame of self-rescue kept me breathing, learning to choose myself over the long, waiting silence.