I had already made the decision.
Not out loud.
Not in writing.
But inside me, it was clear.
I couldn’t go on with her.
Not because I didn’t love her anymore.
Quite the opposite.
But because I knew that if I stayed,
I would eventually lose myself.
It was somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s.
We were still living together.
Still sleeping in the same bed.
But everything felt different.
She kept saying she’d find a solution.
That there was still hope.
That the new year might change everything.
I nodded.
But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t.
I had chosen.
Quietly.
Without conflict.
Without big words.
But it was final.
There was no way back for me.
And still… I waited.
Carefully.
Because I knew how she would react.
I knew her reactions inside out.
I knew what kind of fire would erupt
the moment I made a move.
So I stayed in the silence a little longer.
Not out of fear.
But out of preparation.
I had already contacted the notary.
The first messages were sent.
I knew what I needed to do.
But I hadn’t done it yet.
We still talked.
Still ate together.
Still shared the same bed.
And yet…
I was already somewhere else inside myself.
I looked at her.
And I still felt love.
But also clarity.
Not this love. Not like this.
We even went to couple’s therapy.
Sitting side by side.
But the words no longer met.
I was there to help end things gently.
She was there to save what was left.
We looked at each other.
But we no longer saw the same thing.
I knew the moment would come.
That I would have to formalize everything.
That she would resist.
And that it wouldn’t end softly.
And still…
I stayed in the silence a little longer.
For the children.
For myself.
For that small piece of calm
I wanted to hold on to just a bit longer.
It felt like the air just before a thunderstorm.
Too quiet.
And you just know…
it’s coming.
I had already made the decision.
Not out loud.
Not in writing.
But inside me, it was clear.
I couldn’t go on with her.
Not because I didn’t love her anymore.
Quite the opposite.
But because I knew that if I stayed,
I would eventually lose myself.
It was somewhere between Christmas and New Year’s.
We were still living together.
Still sleeping in the same bed.
But everything felt different.
She kept saying she’d find a solution.
That there was still hope.
That the new year might change everything.
I nodded.
But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t.
I had chosen.
Quietly.
Without conflict.
Without big words.
But it was final.
There was no way back for me.
And still… I waited.
Carefully.
Because I knew how she would react.
I knew her reactions inside out.
I knew what kind of fire would erupt
the moment I made a move.
So I stayed in the silence a little longer.
Not out of fear.
But out of preparation.
I had already contacted the notary.
The first messages were sent.
I knew what I needed to do.
But I hadn’t done it yet.
We still talked.
Still ate together.
Still shared the same bed.
And yet…
I was already somewhere else inside myself.
I looked at her.
And I still felt love.
But also clarity.
Not this love. Not like this.
We even went to couple’s therapy.
Sitting side by side.
But the words no longer met.
I was there to help end things gently.
She was there to save what was left.
We looked at each other.
But we no longer saw the same thing.
I knew the moment would come.
That I would have to formalize everything.
That she would resist.
And that it wouldn’t end softly.
And still…
I stayed in the silence a little longer.
For the children.
For myself.
For that small piece of calm
I wanted to hold on to just a bit longer.
It felt like the air just before a thunderstorm.
Too quiet.
And you just know…
it’s coming.
Reflection
Sometimes, the silence before the end is heavier than the end itself.
Because you already know what’s coming.
And yet, you hold on —
not out of hope,
but out of softness.
It’s that moment when you can’t say much anymore
without risking to shatter something.
So you stay quiet.
You breathe.
You wait.
But deep inside…
everything is already decided.
Psychological insight
This phase is often recognised in psychology as emotional withdrawal —
a process where someone begins to detach internally
while externally, things still appear unchanged.
For people with high empathy,
this transition often happens gently,
out of care for others.
They feel what’s coming,
but want to protect everyone involved.
Another key concept here is cognitive dissonance:
the internal conflict between what you feel deep down
and what you continue to show or do on the outside.
This gap between inner truth and outer behaviour
can create intense inner stress and emotional fatigue.
Sometimes, ambivalent attachment comes into play —
the tendency to maintain closeness
even when you know it no longer serves you.
This silence, then, is not avoidance.
It is a space.
A holding zone.
A quiet place to gather strength
before taking the next step.
Spiritual view
In many spiritual and religious traditions,
this phase is seen as a sacred threshold.
In Christianity, it reflects the garden of Gethsemane —
the moment of knowing,
but not yet acting.
Of waiting in quiet resolve.
In Buddhism, it’s understood as conscious observation —
staying present,
neither clinging nor pushing away,
just breathing in what is.
In mystical traditions, it’s the threshold of the soul —
a space between two realities,
where one has not yet left,
but no longer fully belongs.
This silence is not empty.
It is full.
Full of preparation.
Full of knowing.
It is where release begins —
not with noise,
but with clarity.
Closing line
You don’t always need words to say goodbye — sometimes, silence says it all.