Page 1
The silence is numbing. I expected a bit more interaction, questions perhaps, some interest. For whatever reason, there is nothing. Or rather, very little. I can imagine why that is and why everyone should be treated as compromised. I am reluctant to see them all as flying monkeys. It would not be fair, but at the same time I cannot explain the silence, and I perhaps should not bother. It is better to leave it be and move on.
Page 2
I kept checking my inbox like it’s a reflex, as if someone might ask, “Are you okay?” Not out of guilt, but just basic human decency. But there’s nothing. Not even the usual performative “Hope you’re doing well!” emails that mean less than the pixels they’re written on. Part of me knows it is naive to expect anything. People protect their own positions first - especially in a place where “culture” just means not rocking the boat. Still, the absence stings more than I thought it would. It’s not the anger that’s exhausting; it’s the realisation that to them, I’m already a closed file. No loose ends, no follow-ups, just another name to quietly archive.
I told myself I wouldn’t care. That I’d be the one to walk away clean. But the truth is, it’s harder to be the one left standing in the quiet, wondering if you were ever really seen there at all. Not as a person, just as a variable in someone else’s risk assessment.
I won’t chase answers. I won’t send the “Hey, just checking in” messages that beg for scraps of validation. But I’ll admit it: the silence isn’t neutral. It’s a choice. And that choice tells me everything I need to know.
Time to stop waiting for an echo.