Inspired by Morgan Richard Olivier’s book, “The Tears That Taught Me”

He didn’t say hello.

That’s what’s sitting with me. That someone who once knew the sound of my voice in its most exhausted moments, who called just when I was ready to give up, was close enough this week to look me in the eye. And chose not to.

It’s such a small thing. A hello. A nod. A simple recognition that I existed in his world once in a meaningful way. But it didn’t come.

And the ache of that—the sharp sting of invisibility—has been threading its way through everything the past few days. Not because I need his attention to define me. But because he was there. He mattered. And this silence… it speaks louder than I was prepared for.

When I started writing this blog, I was unraveling and rebuilding at the same time. Leaving a long marriage. Selling the house that held decades of memories. Taking on a new, demanding role in my career. Standing at the edge of a new chapter without a map. And in the chaos of all that, there was Mr. S.

He never stayed long, but he showed up right on time. He’d call when the floor was figuratively collapsing beneath me, when the tears blurred my judgment, when I couldn’t see myself clearly. He didn’t try to fix it all, but he reminded me that I was strong. Capable. Seen.

And I leaned on that more than I admitted at the time.

So yes, it hurts. That this week, when he was right there, he didn’t reach for me. Didn’t acknowledge what we shared. Not even with a passing glance.

But here’s the thing I’m realizing, slowly, painfully, and perhaps finally: I don’t need him to see me anymore.

I’m the one who needs to see me now.

I’ve been reading The Tears That Taught Me, and one line hit me so hard I had to stop and breathe:

“Some absences break us open not to destroy us, but to teach us where we end—and begin again.”

This silence from him? It’s that kind of absence. The kind that says it’s time. Time to turn the corner, not because the grief is done, but because I’m ready to stop waiting for someone else to close a chapter they never intended to finish.

I’m unpacking more than just boxes in my new place. I’m unpacking old patterns, misplaced hopes, and the stories I told myself about who I was when I was with him. I’m slowly falling in love with this quiet life that belongs entirely to me. Morning coffee in solitude. Late-night card games by the pool with Summer, breaking rules and laughing louder than I have in years. Rearranging furniture just because I can.

There’s still sadness. Still a sting when I think about what it all meant…and what it didn’t. But the tears are teaching me too. They’re softening the parts of me that once begged to be chosen. They’re guiding me back to myself.

This isn’t a triumph post. It’s not the part where I declare I’m over it or I’m healed. But it is the part where I acknowledge that his silence no longer defines the volume of my worth.

This time, I hear myself.

And I say hello.

And that’s what this blog has always been about; Flirting with My Future. Not waiting for someone to choose me, not hoping for closure, but learning how to hold the pen and write the next page myself. It started with survival. Now, it’s about awakening. Listening. Trusting the quiet. Finding joy in the in-between.

The corners I’m turning now aren’t just emotional, they’re foundational. And every time I show up here, on this page, I am reminding myself: I’m still becoming. Still building. Still believing that my future is something worth flirting with.

Even, especially, on the days when goodbye is silent.