I remember that night too clearly,
it wasn't loud, it wasn't messy,
just calm in the cruelest way,
like peace pretending to stay.
You were slipping through the silence,
your words grew thin, your tone uncertain.
"Good night" began to sound like ends,
not promises, but quiet curtains.
So i said it first, to save what's left:
"If this is how it's going to be,
maybe we should stop."
I spoke for me, but wished for we.
I hoped you'd say, "No, let's fix this."
But you agreed instead, too kind, too neat.
Your words rehearsed, polite, complete:
a gentle end, disguised defeat.
"My head's all over, I disappear.
I don't want to waste your time, my dear.
I wish you the best."
That was your tone
soft enough to break alone.
My heart didn't shatter, it stilled;
the ache was quiet, but it filled.
No anger rose, just disbelief
that love could fade with such relief.
I typed back slow, with trembling grace,
my dignity stitched in its place:
"Not surprised, just disappointed.
I hope you never hurt another like this.
Take care, God bless."
It read like strength
but my hands were cold,
and every word was letting go.
Then came your last reply,
polite, restrained, and painfully you:
"You're a good person with a good heart.
I'm sorry if i ever did you wrong."
No plea, no reach, no "wait."
Just closure dressed as fate.
And i didn't cry —
maybe because the grieving
started long before goodbye.
In every late reply,
in every fading try,
in every morning you forgot to say hi.
Heartbreak isn't always thunder,
sometimes it's quiet
a numb surrender.
Maybe i knew this end was due,
but stayed to see if you'd choose me too.
You didn't. And that's okay.
Because at least I like you
the real way.
Goodbye,
not because i wanted to,
but because you left me
no other choice.