I've sat with so many people who describe the silence in their apartment as a physical thing. It’s a weight on your chest, a ringing in your ears. You pick up your phone, your thumb hovering over their name, a phantom limb reaching for a connection that’s been severed. You put it down. You pick it up again. You check their social media, a masochistic ritual of scrolling through images of a life that no longer includes you. Each picture is a fresh stab, a confirmation of your exile. You tell yourself you’re just curious. You tell yourself it’s a way of letting go. But the knot in your stomach, the tightness in your throat, tells a different story. This isn’t curiosity. This is a desperate attempt to keep the ghost of them alive, to avoid the terrifying emptiness of your own company. You fill the void with noise. The television babbles in the background, a constant stream of meaningless chatter. You call friends, not because you want to connect, but because you can’t bear the thought of being alone with your own thoughts. You go out, you drink too much, you flirt with strangers, you do anything and everything