The Sound of Silence

Caesar learned something about silence.

It wasn't just the absence of sound. It wasn't just the lack of words, of laughter, of sharp-edged remarks meant to cut deep. It was a weight, thick and suffocating, pressing against his chest in the spaces where something should have been.

He heard it in the hallways, in the way she walked past him without a glance, her footsteps a steady, rhythmic beat against the silence. He heard it in the classroom, in the seat she once filled, now occupied by someone else. He heard it in himself, in the thoughts he didn't dare say out loud.

"Hey, Caesar," a voice called out, breaking through the quiet. "You coming to the game tonight?"

He forced a smile. "Yeah, sure," he mumbled, turning away before the question could be pressed further. He didn't want to explain, didn't want to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

He heard it in the way she walked past him without a glance, her footsteps a steady, rhythmic beat against the silence. He heard it in the classroom, in the seat she once filled, now occupied by someone else. He heard it in himself, in the thoughts he didn't dare say out loud.

It was everywhere.

And it was deafening.

He remembered the day she walked away, her shoulders rigid, her eyes filled with a cold, hard certainty. He had watched her go, his own heart sinking with each step she took, the silence between them growing with each passing second. There had been no drama, no shouting, no tears, just a quiet, final parting. "It's over, Caesar," she had said, her voice barely a whisper. "We can't keep doing this."

He had tried to argue, to plead, to reach out and grasp at the remnants of their connection, but his words had felt hollow, inadequate. "What are you saying?" he'd asked, his voice trembling.

She had turned away, her face etched with pain. "I'm saying this is goodbye."

As if a switch had been flipped, and the world had suddenly become muted.

At first, he thought she was doing it on purpose.

Avoiding him. Ignoring him. Punishing him.

But that wasn't it.

Because avoidance required effort. Ignoring someone meant you noticed them first.

She wasn't doing either.

She had simply moved on.

And that was worse.

Because it meant she wasn't thinking about him at all.

He tried to imagine her life, to fill in the gaps of his ignorance. He pictured her laughing with friends, sharing secrets, confiding in someone new. He saw her smile, genuine and bright, and he knew it wasn't meant for him. He was a ghost, a memory, a faded photograph tucked away in a dusty corner.

"Caesar, you okay?" A concerned voice broke into his thoughts. "You seem really out of it."

He forced a smile, wishing he could disappear into the silence that seemed to consume him. "Just tired," he said, trying to convince himself, and perhaps the other, that it was true.

People still talked to him.

They still called his name, still laughed at his jokes, still invited him out like he mattered. And for a while, he let himself believe it. He let himself sink into the noise, into the warmth of attention, into the illusion that nothing had changed.

But then he would catch glimpses of her, standing with her own group, smiling in a way that wasn't forced, and he would remember.

He wasn't part of her world anymore.

He had been erased.

And the worst part?

He had no one to blame but himself.

The silence was a constant reminder of his failure. It was a gaping wound, a gaping hole where their laughter and their shared dreams once were. He walked through the world, a hollow shell, carrying the weight of his own guilt.

He could have fixed it.

At least, that's what he told himself.

He could have said something, done something, broken the silence that had settled between them like an immovable wall.

But he didn't.

Because he didn't know how.

Because every time he thought about it, the words stuck in his throat, heavy with everything they had lost.

Because maybe it was too late.

Maybe they had already said everything that mattered.

And maybe the silence was all that was left.

He couldn't even bring himself to think about her anymore. He felt like a broken record, stuck on repeat, playing the same painful melody over and over again. The silence was a prison, a constant reminder of his own weakness. It was a weight that he couldn't escape, a constant