He’d go days without speaking to me.
Not a single word. Not a glance. Not even the bare minimum acknowledgment that I was there. Just silence. Heavy, crushing silence.
Always with the radio blaring.
The music never stopped. Song after song, filling the space between us like a barrier I could never break through. Some people use silence to think, to cool off, to process. But not him. His silence was punishment. A weapon.
Whenever I tried to talk to him, he’d just crank up the volume, drowning out my voice.
At first, I’d raise mine, trying to talk over the noise. Then I’d move closer, standing right in front of him, hoping he’d have to acknowledge me. But he never did. He’d just stare at the radio, fingers twisting the dial, making sure I couldn’t reach him.
He never said why.
No explanation. No fight to justify it. Just this endless quiet, thick with unspoken anger, with control.
Like I didn’t even exist.
Like I wasn’t worth the effort of words.
And somehow, that hurt more than if he’d just yelled.
