The Sound of Silence

I think, I'm getting use to sitting here with my own thoughts.
Honestly, that was the most devastating thing.
You don't know how much of your time is taken up with talking until you lose your partner and you're no longer saying things like "drive safe", "see you later", and many other mundane things that you end up missing more than anything else.
Because, after a while it starts to sink in there's no one to say "Good morning" to or
"Good night" to .
"Have a good day at work"
No longer hearing his voice saying "It's good to be home"
Nobody to ask questions to "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Are you warm enough?"
Nobody to thank you for the things you have done for them and no one to do them for.
Until the silence starts to drive you mad so you wrestle with it and, eventually, reconcile with it.
I know he's gone- that part of me that kept hoping it was a bad dream and he was coming back it's not there anymore.
And I can sit for hours with myself and be somewhat comfortable.
I'm not over the grief, in fact I don't know if you ever are, and I'm not really sure what all this means.
The acceptance, I believe is considered a good thing ,but it's almost like a second death in letting go of the delusional thinking and accepting the cold hard facts.
And stranger still, when I sit in the quiet and am content it starts to seem almost like a betrayal.
The old cliche comes to mind 'Life must go on"
It's not quite correct, but life indeed must go on, but it's only because we have no choice.
And you have to learn to be content in the quiet or go mad.

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OluwoleFemiJacob · 26-30, M

What you wrote is painfully honest—and deeply human.
There’s a kind of grief people don’t talk about much: not the big moments, but the quiet erosion of all the small words. The “drive safe,” the “are you warm enough,” the background music of being known. When that disappears, the silence isn’t just quiet—it’s loud. It presses in.
You’re right: acceptance doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like a second loss. Letting go of the hope that this is a mistake, a bad dream, can feel colder than the first shock. And that strange guilt you described—being okay for a moment, feeling content in the quiet—that isn’t betrayal. It’s survival. Love doesn’t disappear just because you can breathe again.
Grief isn’t something you “get over.” It changes shape. Some days it’s heavy and sharp, other days it’s a dull ache, and sometimes—confusingly—it steps back and lets you rest. That doesn’t mean you loved less. It means your heart is learning how to carry what happened without breaking under it.
And yes, life goes on—but not because it’s fair or poetic. It goes on because you do. Because even in the quiet, you’re still here. Learning how to sit with yourself isn’t forgetting him; it’s honoring the part of you that was shaped by loving him.
You’re not doing grief wrong.
You’re doing it honestly.
And that takes a kind of courage most people never see.