Sweet Nothing – Part 1
There are stories we hold in the quietest corners of our minds — moments of stillness, loss, and meaning that have shaped us in ways we rarely speak aloud. Sweet Nothing, Part 1 is the beginning of such a reflection.
I remember the way the light filtered through the dusty blinds that morning. The world outside was going on — horns honking, children shouting down the street — but inside, it was impossibly quiet. We hadn’t spoken in days. Not out of anger, but out of something much heavier: the awareness that words might undo whatever fragile peace we had managed to build.
You made coffee. I watched the steam rise. You didn’t look at me, and I didn’t ask you to. There’s a kind of grief that settles not in the heart but in the space between people — a grief without name, one that lingers in glances not given, in doors left half-closed.
I don’t know when we lost the ability to say what mattered. Maybe we never really had it. But the silence became a shape we both learned to live beside, like a ghost that stopped being frightening once it became familiar.
In this first part of my memoir, I try to capture not just what happened, but what didn’t. The pauses. The almosts. The sweet nothings.
Stay with me as I walk back through the shadows and light of a memory that refuses to fade.
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To be continued in Part 2.