I Don’t Remember The Sound Of Your Voice, But The Silence Sounds Like Moving On


This morning I woke up with a vague sense of nostalgia. My bones ached as the light made its way through the curtains and I lay in bed for a solid hour thinking about the fact that even though we shared a lifetime of adventures together,

I can’t for the life of me remember the sound of your voice.

I know it was deep and loud, I remember making fun of how it boomed when you spoke to large groups of people. You said it was because theater life had taught you how to project it. I also know you had a hint of an accent and that you used words only “old timers” would use in daily conversation. But for some reason I can’t hear anything but a faint buzz when I picture you speak.

See, my mind has a funny way of remembering you.

I remember the words you said because they still dance around in front of me. Every conversation we had still lives inside my phone, your name staring back at me whenever I open up my messages. I haven’t deleted them out of some masochistic impulse. The one that hits me late at night when I’m half­-drunk after a crappy date and I read over our chats and tell myself it’s possible to find a connection like that again.

I remember your favorite book. You gave me a copy of it for my nineteenth birthday, bound in dark green leather and gold type, and marked all your favorite quotes inside it with a pencil. I remember you told me: “Mark yours too. It’ll be like our minds are having a conversation.”

I remember the mole near your thigh because I used to kiss it every chance I got. You told me no one had ever noticed it before me, and I told you that as a writer I was always paying attention to detail. I remember the burn mark on your left thumb from when you were thirteen and tried to light the chimney. I could draw a map of you connecting all your birthmarks, scars and spots because I remember how well I maneuvered them and your body it when we lay in bed together.

I remember the first fight we had.

We were standing in the middle of the living room after four days of not seeing each other and a collection of misunderstood texts. I remember I called you a selfish asshole and you called me pathetic. I remember it was the first of many, and that these fights became even more frequent and filled with venom over the next two years. I remember the names and faces of the girls I had to pretend not to know existed. I can even remember the smell of their perfume staining your clothes.

I can pinpoint every destructive moment of this crash­ and­ burn ordeal we called a relationship, but no matter how quiet the room is or how vividly I imagine your lips and the way they moved,

I can’t remember what your voice sounds like.

But what kept me hidden under the covers wasn’t a futile attempt at trying my best to remember, it was the realization that I don’t mind not knowing it anymore. I don’t mind not hearing you sing in the shower or curse while you cooked dinner. This silence sounds like moving on. And, darling, it’s about time that happened. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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