Gone Without Warning
Some disappearances aren’t planned. They’re born in a single breath that finally breaks.
They had the key.
Turned it like always.
Expecting laughter. A voice. Proof that I still existed.
The door opened.
Silence came out to meet them.
Not peace.
Not rest.
The kind of silence that hums like a wound still deciding whether to close.
The air hung heavy.
Walls stripped bare.
Nail holes staring back like eyes.
The carpet that never lied straight, bunched up and wrinkled like it knew too much.
Even the light looked lost.
Then—music.
Strawberries by Caamp still playing on the speaker I’d left behind.
“I could have been yours…”
That line drifted through the emptiness like incense at a funeral.
They said my name once.
Then again, softer.
The sound fell flat, dead before it could find me.
No note.
No reason.
It doesn’t take much to end a life without dying.
Just one second of clarity so sharp it draws blood.
One heartbeat that whispers, I can’t keep living like this.
That’s all it ever was.
Not anger.
Not revenge.
Just the quiet mercy of stepping out of your own noise.
The slow exhale of someone who finally stops performing the version of themselves the world expected.
And in that hollow apartment,
the song keeps looping.
I could have been yours.
But I wasn’t.
Not even to myself.
Still—
this isn’t about vanishing.
It’s about release.
About setting down the weight of “shoulds” and obligations that were never yours to carry.
About letting silence wash the guilt clean.
The leaving is symbolic.
The emptiness is a mirror.
You don’t have to burn everything to be free.
You just have to stop living for the wrong reasons.
So if you read this and feel that ache —
the one that’s been buried under years of doing what you think you should —
let it break.
Let it bleed.
Let it leave.
Outside, the air smells new.
Not of endings, but of rain on clean concrete.
The kind of morning that forgives you
for what you had to let die to feel alive again.
// Scorpio Veil