The Silent Shot

Pain doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes it arrives quietly, like a gunshot without an echo.
It doesn’t pierce the body — it goes deeper.
One image is enough.
An image that shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
Because it’s not what it shows — it’s what it confirms.

The skin doesn’t bleed.
What bleeds is the exact place where there once was belonging.
Where there was a voice.
Where there was a name.
What breaks can’t be seen, but it stays.
It stays like a dull blade lodged somewhere time can’t reach,
and no words can dull,
and no air can soothe.

It’s not about anger.
Not about jealousy.
Not about longing.
It’s about understanding — finally — that the place has been filled.
That the story kept going without you.
That there’s no longer room for your shadow,
no space for your memory,
no version of events that includes you anymore.

And so, everything goes quiet.
The feeling.
The mouth.
The world.
All that remains is the kind of sorrow that needs no explanation.
A sadness that doesn’t cry — it burns.
A solitude that doesn’t ask for company,
because it knows there’s none.

The shot made no sound,
but it hit the center.
And ever since, something trembles inside
every time the world dares to smile without you.

This piece was originally published in Spanish. You can read the original version here.