If you ask a writer like me about my favorite word, I’ll tell you this: words are dangerous, seductive things. They slip under your skin and make a home there. They can shatter your heart with a single sentence, pull you back from the edge, make you laugh while you’re drowning. They can soothe you into calm, or undo you into chaos.
And then there are the words that don’t just touch you, they split you wide open. Words that pulse like fingers against your body, that drag an orgasm out of you without ever laying a hand. That’s the real seduction of language. It doesn’t need flesh to destroy you.
But right now, silence is the only word that lingers around me. Not the peaceful kind—the kind that drags you under, claws at your throat, makes every breath feel stolen.
People talk about alcohol and drugs as addictions. Overrated. Please. Try not speaking to the person you’re dying to hear from. Try not touching the body your own is screaming for. That’s the real overdose, no rehab touches it. That’s the withdrawal that eats you alive from the inside out.
I thought silence would save me. If I locked the words away, maybe the hunger would finally starve. But silence doesn’t save, it stockpiles. Every word unsaid, every whisper swallowed, every touch that never happened, every fire you never let burn, until it starts carving echoes straight through your chest.
Here’s the cruel joke: desire doesn’t die in silence. It sharpens. It remembers. It carves itself deeper into your ribs, humming there, waiting for the smallest crack of air to set you on fire again.
Maybe that’s why silence is my favorite word right now. Because it isn’t empty at all, it’s an addiction in disguise. It’s fire in hiding. Me, wrecked by wanting something I can’t quit and can’t have.
And for now, silence is all I have left to give.
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