Not every man is like my ex.
I used to fill the silence with blame. My brain would race ahead of reality, building stories out of nothing until those stories started to feel real. Then I’d believe them. And once I believed them, it was a quick downward spiral.
So, I tell myself over and over that this is different. But telling myself something logically didn’t stop my body from reacting.
Because my body remembers. It remembered what it felt like to sit at home alone for days at a time when Ryan would be off partying on his “boys’ weekends.” The way my stomach would twist every time I checked my phone and saw no messages. The way my chest would tighten when hours turned into entire days of silence.
The quiet apartment would start to feel suffocating, like the walls were closing in with every minute that passed without hearing from him. I remember lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I had done wrong this time. Wondering if I had said something that made him lose interest. Wondering if he was already halfway out the door, and I was the only one pretending we were still together.
My body remembers that feeling so clearly it almost startles me sometimes.
The tension would start in my shoulders first. A tightness that crept up my neck and settled into my jaw. My stomach would knot so tightly that food sounded impossible. My heart would beat so fast for no reason, like it was bracing for something bad that hadn’t happened yet.
It’s amazing how the body latches onto things long after the mind tries to let them go.
I hand a latte across the counter to a regular and smile automatically.
“Have a good day,” I say.
“You too, honey,” the older lady responds.
The bell above the door jingles as she leaves.
My body remembers something else too.
The silent treatment.
My body remembers what it felt like when Ryan would give it to me after a big fight. The air in the apartment would change instantly. Heavy and cold, like something invisible had taken over the room.
He wouldn’t yell, wouldn’t argue. He just stopped talking. At first, I would try to fix it. Ask him what was wrong. Apologize even when I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for.
But he would sit there scrolling his phone, acting like I wasn’t even in the room. And the longer the silence stretched, the more desperate I became to break it.
Eventually, my chest would feel tight, like breathing required more effort than usual.
My stomach would twist in sharp knots, my skin would feel hot and cold all at once.
The silence was punishment. He knew exactly what it did to me. And he used it anyway. Sometimes it would last hours. Sometimes days.
He would eventually come back, acting as if nothing had happened. Like I was the one who needed to calm down.
This thing, with Everett, it feels different. And I am holding onto that.
Just as I take a sip of coffee I hear my phone ding, pulling it out of my back pocket I see it’s a text from Everett.
Everett:
Hey, I know you have probably noticed that I have been distant. I want to make sure you know it doesn’t have anything to do with you, or us. I’ve had some news I need to wrap my head around, I’m not sure what to do yet and I just need a little time before I can talk about it.
Rereading what he wrote a few times, I trust him, he has given me no reason not to. He said this isn’t about me, or us. I believe him, but of course I still feel vulnerable.
Everett told me before that when something overwhelmed him, his instinct wasn’t to talk. It was to pull inward. To process things alone first. To understand what he was feeling before bringing it to someone else.
He said it as if he were apologizing for it. But when he explained it, it didn’t sound manipulative. It sounded honest.
My ex would use silence as a weapon. Everett uses it as a shield.
That difference matters more than anything.
