After the Silence 3: The Nickname and Reclaiming the Room

I wasn’t ready to see him.

But I couldn’t not see him either. Somehow that seemed worse. 

After everything ended—no closure, no conversation, just silence—the idea of being in the same room made my chest ache. I still can’t say his name. It gets stuck somewhere between my ribs and my throat, and I don’t think I’ve ever managed to force it all the way out.

So Dana gave him a name.

Perry.

Yes, as in Perry the Platypus.

Why that name? It’s a private joke—one probably should never be explained to anyone. Ever.

But it stuck. And somehow, it helped.

It became a shield.

Something I could say without flinching.

Because he had meant something… and then disappeared like none of it mattered at all.

And Dana—Dana became more than just an old acquaintance.

She became my rock.

The one person I could turn to for anything.

She didn’t drag me back to that place.

She didn’t push.

She just stood beside me.

Because I had to see him. And we both knew he’d be there.

“You don’t owe him the power to erase you,” she said softly. “Keep showing up for yourself.”

And she was right.

That room had been mine once, too. The mic. The laughter. The late nights. I didn’t want to give it up—not because of him.

So I went.

The first night back, I could barely breathe. I kept my eyes down. My voice was nothing more than a whisper.

But Dana made sure I got up to sing. She cracked jokes when I needed them. She probably fed me a few too many drinks. She held space for me when I didn’t have the words.

And slowly, week by week, I took my place back.

At the mic.

On my patio.

In the space that once felt haunted—now slowly becoming mine again.

Eventually, I could see him—Perry—without feeling like I was going to fall apart.

The ache was still there. But softer. Less sharp.

And even though I still wasn’t writing, something inside me had shifted.

I felt like me again.

Not every day. Not all at once.

But the girl who laughed too hard at inside jokes, who sang when her hands trembled, who stayed out too late and held her ground—

She was returning.

And so were the words.

Just not quite yet.