Once I came inside my room, I closed the door with a soft click - even in my heartbreak, I didn't want to make a scene by slamming it. The moment the door clicked shut, the strength in my knees simply vanished. I reached for the edge of my bed, my hands were trembling so hard that I could barely grip the sheets. I didn't just sit; I collapsed into the mattress, grabbing my pillow and pressing it against my face . I buried my face deep into the fabric, letting the pillow soak up the heat of my tears and the sound of my grief. I cried like a baby—not for myself, but for my mother who wasn't there to hold me and my father who had already moved on. I was terrified that even a single gasp might travel through the walls, so I bit down on the corner of the pillow, turning my heartbreak into a heavy, suffocating silence. I wanted to be invisible, a ghost mourning a ghost.
When the tears finally ran dry, I didn't feel better; I just felt hollow. I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling as the room grew darker. My eyes were heavy and swollen behind my glasses, but I knew I couldn't stay hidden forever.
Slowly, I sat up. I smoothed my hair, adjusted my frames, and splashed cold water on my face until the redness faded into a pale mask. When I finally walked back out, I moved as if nothing had happened—as if my heart hadn't just been torn open and stitched back together in the dark.
After the sun had dipped below the horizon, I finally emerged. I had spent the last few hours hunched over my books, my eyes were tracing the same lines of text over and over while my mind stayed stuck on the image of my father's "new life."
Later on , my father came back from his word and we prepared the dinner together. But no one uttered a word. Dinner was a performance of silence. The only sounds were the occasional clink of a spoon against a plate . I kept my head down, my glasses acting as a barrier between us . I waited for him to say something - anything to acknowledge the news he had broken earlier. I waited for him to ask how I was doing, or even just to mention my mother's name. But the words never came. He ate with a preoccupied air, his mind clearly already living in the future he had planned, leaving us behind in the wreckage of the past.
When the meal was over, he retreated back into his own world, and I retreated into mine . Later that night, as I lay in bed, the house felt unnervingly still. I realized then that the conversation wouldn't be continued. There was no comfort coming, no explanation, and no apology. He was moving on in the light of day, and I was left to carry the weight of their shared history in the dark. To him, the "new life" had already begun. To me, the silence was a confirmation that I was truly alone. I felt like the silence was a thick, suffocating blanket. We shared meals, same place but we didn't share a home.