The tea is cold by the time I remember it’s there. That’s usually how the quiet sets in—not with a sudden crash, but in the small, empty spaces where a habit used to live. For a long time, my entire internal weather was dictated by a single person. Every text notification was a lightning strike; every hour of silence was a slow, suffocating barometric drop. They were the lens through which I saw the world, the anchor that kept me tethered to the surface. And then, quietly, the anchor was cut. The Silence of Losing a Favorite Person (FP) People talk about breakups like they are dramatic productions—shouting matches, packed boxes, slammed doors. But the loss of an FP is different. It’s an amputation performed in total silence. One day you are sharing the entire architecture of your mind with someone, and the next, you are staring at a stranger across an invisible, uncrossable chasm. The hardest part isn't even the absence. It’s the phantom limb syndrome of the soul. I find myself dra...