A Silent Goodbye

The rain tapped against the window of the small apartment, a steady rhythm that matched the dull ache in Ethan’s chest. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the worn-out sneakers by the door. They were the same ones he’d worn on that summer day two years ago, when everything still felt possible. Back when he thought love was something you could hold onto forever. Ethan was 17 then, a lanky kid with dreams too big for his small town. He’d met Mia at the county fair, her laughter cutting through the noise of the carousel and the chatter of the crowd. She had this way of smiling—like she knew a secret the rest of the world wasn’t ready for. They’d spent that summer inseparable, sneaking out to the lake at midnight, sharing stories under the stars, promising each other they’d escape that nowhere town together. She was his first everything: his first love, his first kiss, his first reason to believe the future could be better than the present. But promises are fragile things. Mia’s family moved away that fall, across the country, chasing her dad’s new job. They swore they’d make it work—texts, calls, maybe even visits when they could afford it. Ethan got a job at the local diner, saving every penny for a bus ticket to see her. He’d lie awake at night, rereading her messages, clinging to the hope that distance was just a test they’d pass. The first few months were okay. They’d talk for hours, her voice crackling through his cheap earbuds, making the miles feel smaller. But then her texts got shorter. Her calls less frequent. “I’m just busy with school,” she’d say, and Ethan believed her because he wanted to. He’d scroll through her social media, seeing her with new friends, new places, a new life that didn’t have room for him. Each post was a tiny cut, and he bled quietly, telling himself it was fine, that she still loved him. By the time she stopped replying altogether, Ethan was 18, and the silence was louder than any breakup could’ve been. No fight, no explanation—just a void where she used to be. He’d check his phone obsessively, hoping for a message that never came. He’d write long texts, pouring out his heart, only to delete them unsent. He didn’t want to be the guy who begged, even if that’s all he felt like doing. The worst part wasn’t the heartbreak. It was the way it changed him. Ethan used to be the kid who’d crack jokes in class, who’d dream of being a writer, who believed the world was full of possibilities. Now, he felt like a ghost of himself, going through the motions—school, work, sleep, repeat. He’d see couples holding hands and feel a pang so sharp it stole his breath. He’d hear a song they used to love and have to leave the room. He stopped writing, because every word felt like a reminder of what he’d lost. His friends tried to help. “Move on, man,” they’d say, pushing him to download dating apps or talk to the new girl at school. But Ethan couldn’t. It wasn’t just Mia he’d lost—it was the version of himself that believed in forever. He’d lie in bed at night, wondering what he’d done wrong, why he wasn’t enough. Was it something he said? Something he didn’t do? The questions looped in his head, unanswered, eating away at him. One night, scrolling through his phone, he found an old voicemail from Mia, one he’d saved from that summer. Her voice was bright, teasing him about his terrible dance moves at the fair. Ethan played it over and over, each word a knife twisting deeper. He wanted to hate her, to be angry, but all he felt was this hollow ache, like a piece of him was missing and he’d never find it again. He didn’t cry. Boys like Ethan don’t cry, not because they don’t want to, but because they’ve learned it doesn’t fix anything. Instead, he carried the weight of it all—her absence, his doubts, the dreams they’d made together that now felt like lies. He carried it to school, to work, to every quiet moment when the world slowed down and the pain rushed in. The rain outside kept falling, blurring the world beyond the window. Ethan stood up, grabbed his sneakers, and slipped them on. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t stay here, surrounded by memories that felt like ghosts. As he stepped into the storm, the cold rain soaking through his hoodie, he let himself feel it all—the hurt, the longing, the what-ifs. For the first time in months, he whispered her name into the dark, knowing she’d never hear it. And somewhere, deep down, he knew he’d carry this ache forever, a scar no one else could see. But maybe, just maybe, he’d learn to live with it. Not today, not tomorrow, but someday. Because that’s what boys like Ethan do—they keep going, even when it hurts