The Room Where the Stars Don’t Speak

There is a room no one remembers. It exists between seconds, beneath the sigh of clocks, where grief collects like dust no one dares to clean. A boy once lived there. Not in body but in everything the world chose not to see. He was the note never played in the song, the letter erased before the ink could dry. He breathed like wallpaper quiet, patterned, unseen. No one ever knocked. No one ever asked why his eyes looked like they had tasted the end before they had seen the beginning. His laughter? Left in a jar somewhere, screwed shut so tightly even joy forgot the sound of it. He wore loneliness like a coat he could never outgrow, stitched from glances that never met his gaze. Every day, he walked into the world like a ghost that paid rent. Spoke in decimals. Laughed in subtitles. His voice didn’t echo; it dissolved. And when he fell in love not loudly, not with roses or grand poems but in that terrified, trembling way the unseen do, he gave everything to someone who needed nothing. She smiled like gravity. Beautiful. Indifferent. And when she left, she didn’t break his heart she erased the last map he had left of himself. He didn’t die in a fire. No cliffs. No pills. No flashing red lights. He simply stopped returning. One breath at a time. One unanswered message after another. He faded like the glow after a candle’s blown out and no one remembers the flame. Now, sometimes, when it rains but the sun is shining, or when silence lingers a second too long you might feel it: that ache you can’t name. That’s him. That’s the room where the stars don’t speak. And you just walked through it.