When She Goes Quiet
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
There is a moment before the end
that no one hears.
Not the slammed door,
not the tear-streaked plea,
not the tired repetition of I’m fine.
It is softer—
a breath folded inward,
a decision made in marrow.
You think she is calm.
You think you have won.
But you have mistaken exhaustion for peace.
She is not serene;
she is emptied.
Once, she fought like the tide—
relentless, returning,
throwing herself against the same rock
because she believed erosion was love,
because she thought persistence was virtue.
She begged, reasoned, explained,
translated herself into every language
except the one you would listen to.
And when she finally stopped,
when her voice gave way to quiet,
you felt relief.
You told yourself
she had forgiven you.
You didn’t notice
how the light in her eyes dimmed to embers,
how the room lost its gravity
because she had already begun to leave.
Silence is not surrender.
It is aftermath.
It is the sound grief makes
when it learns to protect itself.
By the time she goes quiet,
she has already packed her tenderness
into the smallest possible shape,
already buried her wanting
beneath years of compromise.
By the time she stops fighting,
she no longer believes you can hear her—
or that it matters if you do.
You will miss the noise,
the arguments, the questions,
the way she reached for you
even in her anger.
You will remember her laughter
and not understand
that it was the first language to die.
And one day,
in the quiet you mistook for peace,
you will listen hard for her voice
and find only the echo
of your own.
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