Emotional Healing
What Remains of the Silence
What Remains of the Silence.
Farha sat lost in thought on the edge of her bed, her phone still clutched in one hand. The screen was silent, showing nothing but her own reflection. The song Redha Tak Bererti Lupa played softly. Its mournful voice seemed to rise from inside her own chest.
“The quiet night speaks without a voice, without a name…” she sang along softly, eyes half closed. “Eh, even the song knows I'm overthinking,” she said with a quiet laugh.
She got up and opened the window. The night air entered, carrying the lingering scent of rain. “I closed this story long ago… ha, right, it's closed. Closed like a broken zip—supposedly shut, but always coming open bit by bit,” she told herself, half-dazed and half-amused.
Farha pulled a pillow to her chest. “Farha, are you a drama queen or what? Everyone else has moved on, and you're still delivering monologues like an indie film.” She smiled bitterly. Deep inside, she knew it wasn't easy. Some memories were never invited back, yet returned whenever the heart grew too quiet.
She looked at her phone again. Still no likes. Still no comments. The song she had posted yesterday, Kelibatmu's Tersesat Dalam Diri, remained alone in the endless online space. “Hah… maybe everyone's busy making their own content,” she whispered. “Me too. At least this song understands my heart.”
She gave a small laugh, half bitter and half relieved. “Silence doesn't mean longing has disappeared… that's true. Sometimes the quiet ones are still watching. They just haven't had the chance to press anything.”
Farha sat in front of the mirror. Her face looked tired, but a small light remained in her eyes. “Love doesn't always mean being together,” she recited softly from the song. “And sometimes the world is too busy to pay attention, even to my post. That's all right. Not everything has to turn out the way we expect.”
She smiled at her own reflection. “Enough, Farha. Don't be so angry. Sometimes the silent ones are still there. They just don't make a fuss.”
She drew a deep breath. Opened the gallery. Scrolled through old photographs. Then pressed delete with a wistful smile. “Acceptance doesn't mean forgetting,” she whispered. “Not him. Not what was lost. Not the likes that never came.”
She pressed play again. The singer's voice played softly. “Silence doesn't mean longing has disappeared…” She repeated it with a quiet laugh. “Eh, who are you missing, Farha? Your ex, or the attention?”
The room remained silent. But her heart no longer felt so heavy. She placed the phone on the table and pulled up the blanket, whispering softly. “It's all right. One day, the people who truly listen will come. For now, let everyone carry on with their own lives. I've made my peace.”
Between the remnants of night and the first light of dawn, Farha understood… Acceptance did not mean forgetting. Nor did it mean pretending to be strong. Sometimes acceptance was simply having the courage to post again, even when the silence remained.
Farha sat lost in thought on the edge of her bed, her phone still clutched in one hand. The screen was silent, showing nothing but her own reflection. The song Redha Tak Bererti Lupa played softly. Its mournful voice seemed to rise from inside her own chest.
“The quiet night speaks without a voice, without a name…” she sang along softly, eyes half closed. “Eh, even the song knows I'm overthinking,” she said with a quiet laugh.
She got up and opened the window. The night air entered, carrying the lingering scent of rain. “I closed this story long ago… ha, right, it's closed. Closed like a broken zip—supposedly shut, but always coming open bit by bit,” she told herself, half-dazed and half-amused.
Farha pulled a pillow to her chest. “Farha, are you a drama queen or what? Everyone else has moved on, and you're still delivering monologues like an indie film.” She smiled bitterly. Deep inside, she knew it wasn't easy. Some memories were never invited back, yet returned whenever the heart grew too quiet.
She looked at her phone again. Still no likes. Still no comments. The song she had posted yesterday, Kelibatmu's Tersesat Dalam Diri, remained alone in the endless online space. “Hah… maybe everyone's busy making their own content,” she whispered. “Me too. At least this song understands my heart.”
She gave a small laugh, half bitter and half relieved. “Silence doesn't mean longing has disappeared… that's true. Sometimes the quiet ones are still watching. They just haven't had the chance to press anything.”
Farha sat in front of the mirror. Her face looked tired, but a small light remained in her eyes. “Love doesn't always mean being together,” she recited softly from the song. “And sometimes the world is too busy to pay attention, even to my post. That's all right. Not everything has to turn out the way we expect.”
She smiled at her own reflection. “Enough, Farha. Don't be so angry. Sometimes the silent ones are still there. They just don't make a fuss.”
She drew a deep breath. Opened the gallery. Scrolled through old photographs. Then pressed delete with a wistful smile. “Acceptance doesn't mean forgetting,” she whispered. “Not him. Not what was lost. Not the likes that never came.”
She pressed play again. The singer's voice played softly. “Silence doesn't mean longing has disappeared…” She repeated it with a quiet laugh. “Eh, who are you missing, Farha? Your ex, or the attention?”
The room remained silent. But her heart no longer felt so heavy. She placed the phone on the table and pulled up the blanket, whispering softly. “It's all right. One day, the people who truly listen will come. For now, let everyone carry on with their own lives. I've made my peace.”
Between the remnants of night and the first light of dawn, Farha understood… Acceptance did not mean forgetting. Nor did it mean pretending to be strong. Sometimes acceptance was simply having the courage to post again, even when the silence remained.
Translation
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