I don’t expect an answer. Silence is what I earned. But some nights the weight presses harder— the mistakes, the absences, the words I never said right. I can’t ask you to forgive me. I wouldn’t know how to forgive me either. Silence crushes heavier than your absence ever did. I broke too much. Left too many scars in places I had no right to touch. And now— all I have are these nights where your memory circles like vultures, picking at what’s left of me. I miss it. The call. The words. That flicker of you, before everything rotted. I replay it until it feels like madness, like pressing on a wound just to prove it still bleeds. I tried drowning it in work, in noise, in the hollow sound of “moving forward.” But nothing drowns. It only waits. And when the quiet comes, you are all that’s left in it. You told me once to kill the poisons. I did. Not a drop, not a drag since that night. And if it means nothing to you, fine. But it meant everything to me. Because it was the last thread that still tied me back to you. It’s the only proof I have that I listened, that I cared, that something in me still bends toward you. That’s all. I miss you. Every day, every night, every goddamn breath. And I know it’s useless, but so am I without you.