Born beneath pink skies.
Disappeared into blush nights.
Never said goodbye.
Just stopped showing up.
Some stories don’t end with words. They fade into silence, softer than the memory of a sunset. One day you’re laughing under skies painted pink, and the next you’re a ghost in your own life.
Not every goodbye is spoken. Some are written in absence, in empty seats, in moments that never come back.
And maybe that’s the hardest part
Knowing endings don’t always announce themselves
They just arrive
And somewhere in between you learn to live with the silence.
uncommonsight 