I was in a relationship with him for eight years. We lived together for six of them. And throughout those years, we fought over the same thing—again and again.
Each time, he responded with the silent treatment.
At first, it lasted a day. But as time went on, it stretched—three days, five, seven.
He always announced the duration in advance, as if he had some kind of emotional timer set.
Those wordless days filled our home with a heavy silence. I kept asking myself, Why? What happened? But my questions hung unanswered in the air, like they didn’t deserve a reply. Like I didn’t exist at all.
I’ve never been able to handle being ignored.
When I was a child, I lived with my grandmother while my mother worked. One day, my grandmother suddenly stopped speaking to me. I still don’t know why. Maybe I was just being too cheerful for her mood. She said nothing. I cried alone by the bookshelf, convinced I had done something terribly wrong. I remember that day clearly—not just the silence, but the fact that one of my baby teeth fell out. I must’ve been around five.
Maybe that’s why the silent treatment always hit me harder than it should. It triggered that same old panic. The same self-blame.
The first time my partner ignored me, I was shocked.
Friends had ghosted me before. Even my grandmother.
But a partner? Someone who claimed to love me?
After a full day of silence, I became afraid of him.
Not because he yelled. But because I couldn’t predict him. I didn’t know how far this silence could go.
So I asked him to meet me in public—at a Mos Burger. Somewhere safe.
I told him I wanted to break up. I said, “I can’t handle being ignored. That’s the one thing I can’t take.”
We’d only been together six months.
He said, “Are you really going to throw away six months? Relationships take time. We’re building something here.”
And I stayed.
Maybe he was right, I thought. Maybe I was overreacting.
He was Australian. Maybe the silent treatment wasn’t such a big deal where he came from.
I didn’t know then that eight years later, we’d break up for the exact same reason.
One summer, he had ten days off. I had just three. He wanted to go to Namjatown to eat gyoza.
I was exhausted. Burnt out from work.
The heat, the crowds, the city’s strange smell—I winced and furrowed my brow.
He exploded.
“That’s it. I’m not talking to you for three days.”
A part of me was relieved. Three quiet days? Maybe I’ll book a hotel and enjoy the silence.
But hotel prices were rising, and guilt weighed heavier than my desire for peace.
I wondered if I was the problem. Was I selfish? Moody? Emotionally immature?
That year, I went to a psychiatrist and got prescribed antidepressants—Latuda and Lexapro.
The medication transformed me.
I could handle crowds again. I could smile at him again.
I felt lighter, freer, almost like someone else.
That summer holiday became a turning point.
But the real turning point came later—when I had to stop the meds due to physical side effects.
And I remembered:
I wasn’t happy. I was just chemically numbed.
I had smiled through pain, but none of it was real.
The silent treatment didn’t hurt because I was weak.
It hurt because I had always tried to engage honestly. I just wanted to be heard.
From now on, I’ll listen to my own voice first.
And because I lacked the words to express myself back then, I’ll keep learning English.
This summer holiday is starting.
He’s no longer beside me.