The Cacophony of Silence.

At the beginning of this year, I was still reeling from the pain that was rife in 2017. I was in a quasi-relationship. I’m still not sure how to define a romantic relationship that is lacking commitment but is filled with intention. We never put a label on it, even after almost three years of dating, seeing each other, couple-hood, fucking––as I said, I’m still not sure what to call it. I could feel things drawing to an end, partly because of my need to put a label on it, partly because of our inability to agree on one very important thing: whether or not this relationship was worthy of committing to.

I waited. I waited for him to make a move. For him to decide to either get on board or end things. I’ve been told that I have a tendency to push so hard for the things that I want that I scare people away. I didn’t want to do that this time. I didn’t want to push too hard. I didn’t want to seem too eager. So I waited.

We started falling out of our usual pattern of seeing each other every week. Our daily text messages slowed to every few days. I knew he was busy, but I started to feel that I was the only one putting in any effort anymore. I decided to wait and see how long it would take him to initiate a conversation.

Once I realized how long I had been waiting, I paused to think. It had been a week since I had heard anything from him and that was odd…