💔 Inside Her Silence

By: Muhammad Ilyan Ahmad > I walk like I’ve borrowed her weight, Shoulders slightly lower than usual, As if her sighs were stitched Into the seams of my shirt. I speak in the pauses she leaves behind, Not my own. I time my laughter to match The echo of something she might have found funny, Last week. I drink my tea slow now, Not because I like it cool— But because she once said "Some things lose their meaning when rushed." And I rush less now. Or try. Because it feels like something she would need. I scroll past news she’d have cried at, And frown, As though my heart feels What hers would have felt. But truth? I’m only mimicking muscle memory. I walk into rooms she’s never seen But picture her standing In every doorway, Arms crossed, Waiting to see If I’ll understand what she never said out loud. When I act as if I’m in her feelings, It’s a dance with someone else’s shadow— A performance of care That flirts with real empathy But never quite fits. It’s guessing the color of sadness In a language I never learned to pronounce. Trying to dress in her grief Like a coat two sizes too loose— Warm, but not mine. I write messages I’ll never send In the voice she used when she was strongest, And reread old conversations Just to remember the way she curled her words Around pain, So soft you'd think she meant comfort. I’ve made playlists in her mood. I play songs she’d hum in passing, Hoping the ache in her melody Might somehow spill into my skin. Sometimes I look at the sky and wonder If she’s watching the same clouds. If she knows that even from a distance, I try to feel storms through her eyes. I try. But trying is not knowing. And knowing is not being. I don’t know if she notices. Or if she sees through My rehearsed responses, My carefully timed nods, My borrowed sorrow. But maybe pretending is a kind of love too. Maybe trying to feel What isn’t mine Is the closest I’ve come To being hers. Because I know what she won’t say— That she wants to be seen Without performing her pain. And I can’t ask her To narrate what hurts. So I fold her silences into my pocket, Speak her storms into my voice, And trace the shape of her tears On my own reflection. Not to deceive— But to bridge. Not to perform— But to reach. Because sometimes, Becoming her echo Is the only way I can stay near Without being in the way. I’ve learned that love is not always A knowing. Sometimes it is A listening from a distance. A reverence for someone else’s chaos. A willingness to carry the wind Without asking where it blew from. And though I may never fully live Inside her storms, I will stand at the edge with arms open, Let the rain touch me anyway. Because maybe love Is learning to be changed By feelings that are not yours. Maybe love Is not asking her to come out of herself— But learning how to visit The quiet places she’s built To survive. And maybe, If I stay long enough in the shadow of her pain, Without needing her to name it, She’ll know— I never acted. I became. --- 📝 Poet’s Note: > This poem is about emotional attunement — the ache of loving someone enough to try and live inside their inner world, even when you know it isn’t fully yours. It’s about honoring the boundaries of another’s experience while still reaching toward it with open hands. Sometimes, empathy isn’t perfect. But it’s still love.