Personal Essay | Raginee Ballaree Gogoi
I never thought living away from home would feel this way. People talk about independence like it's this shining freedom, but sometimes, sitting alone in my room, it feels like something else entirely. A quiet, hollow absence. A very rare kind of emptiness. It's in the small things—the cold nights, the rough days, the times I fall sick and realize how helpless I am without my mom's presence. It's when I come back after a long day, hoping for the comfort of a favorite meal, but instead find something cold, lacking that warmth that only comes from her hands. It's in those moments that the weight of her absence feels even heavier, this silent reminder of everything she was there to do, without me even having to ask.
Each time I think about going back, I make up my mind to tell her everything I keep inside. I'll tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me, how much I want to create a life for her that honors everything she has done for me. I want to let her know that every time I'm here, away from her, I ache for her hugs, her simple words, her quiet strength. I tell myself that this time, I won't let it pass. This time, I'll say it all. But then, when I'm home, the silence takes over again. It's not that I forget—I feel the words right there in my heart, so close. But there's this small, shy part of me that holds back, as if she already knows somehow, or maybe because saying it out loud makes it too real, too raw. So, I stay quiet, falling back into our everyday rhythm, sharing silent moments and stolen smiles but leaving so much unspoken. And before I know it, I'm packing my bag again, heading back to the same routine, carrying this small regret with me like a piece of home I can't quite hold.
It's strange how these silences come alive when I'm away from her. With so much space between us, her absence fills the room in ways I didn't know were possible. The distance, somehow, makes the silence more intense, like it's echoing all the words I can't seem to say. I imagine her in the early mornings, waking up alone, maybe wondering about me, maybe waiting for a message that says more than just “I'm fine.”
And yet, there's something oddly beautiful in this silence, as if these unsaid words hold a kind of strength. The absence, the quiet between us. It all feels like a language of its own, one that neither of us speaks out loud but both of us understand. My love for her isn't just in the moments when I'm with her; it's in the gaps, the spaces between each visit, each goodbye. Maybe that's why I hold onto it this way, letting it grow stronger with each absence, even if it's painful.
Silence and absence have become part of how I love her, almost as if each goodbye carves out more room in my heart for the next hello. There's a hope I hold onto, that one day, I'll find the courage to say it all. I imagine myself standing there, telling her every word I've held back, filling the silence with everything she deserves to hear. Until then, I carry this hope with me like a small light, a reminder that love isn't always about what's said. Sometimes, it lives in what's left unspoken, in the quiet places where we leave a piece of ourselves. And maybe that's what I'll tell her someday that the silence, the absence, it's all part of loving her, part of what makes each return feel like home.