Story in the Headings

The Silence Is a Survival Flare, Not a Goodbye

I have one friend I've known since middle school who's still here. She shows the kind of love that doesn't knock—it kicks the door in and brings snacks. Once, because of time blindness, I "ghosted" everyone, including her, for two years.

She Thought I'd Abandoned Her

She'd had a brutal year in my absence, reeling from loss and spending Thanksgiving alone. The same friend who always hosted Friendsgiving for the outcasts—like me. And then—poof. No one made space for her.

Even I disappeared.
Not for lack of care, but for lack of capacity.

When we finally reconnected, she told me everything she'd done trying to find me—scrolling my family's social media, calling people, even searching obituaries and arrest records. She thought I was dead, or worse—alive and just done with her.

The truth?

I wasn't avoiding her. Or anyone.
Just… everyone.

I Was Drowning

I'd lost my dream job in a massive layoff. I was about to lose my home. One friend was murdered. Another died in a plane crash. I totaled two cars in under six months—both wrecks that should have killed me. I felt like all of it was slowly killing me. My body began to collapse from the stress, needing three emergency surgeries during four separate hospitalizations. My soul felt not too far behind.

My silence wasn't about numbing pain.
It was trying to survive grief with no language.

So I Shut down

Not from lack of care, but from too much… everything… to carry out loud. Not an explosive meltdown—just the power cutting out, a deafening silence in which I cannot find my way out.

When I finally reached out—expecting anger or deserved silence—she didn't hesitate. She didn't ask why I took so long. She just drove. Two hours across the state, despite back pain, just to see me, to hug me, to be there.

When we met again, it wasn't awkward. Our hearts picked up mid-sentence. We ate dinner, then sat in my car talking until midnight. Laughter. Tears. "Holy crap, I missed you."

Knowing what happened didn't erase her pain, but she made space for mine, too.

She didn't interrogate my silence—she bandaged it. Sat beside me until it stopped bleeding blame.

---

If You've Ever Been That Friend—Here's What Helps

You don't have to fix us. You just have to believe us. And stay.

The most powerful thing you can say to an autistic friend in shutdown:

"I'm not going anywhere."

Even if we go quiet.
Even if we disappear into the fog.
Even if you don't fully get it.
Especially then.

Because that's when one's love becomes protection. A community becomes communion. Not just healing, but holding—without demanding we explain the wound before you care.

Don't read our silence like a vibe check.

It's not rejection.
It's just all we have left sometimes.

Ask instead:

• "Need space or want company?"
• "Would a quiet night help?"
• "Want me to just sit with you for a while?"

Simple questions save relationships. And patience, if we're too overwhelmed even to answer them.

Don't punish us for taking time to reply.

Don't weaponize silence.
And when that long message finally comes—the one that took weeks of spirals and guilt? Try to remember what went into making that miracle happen. It's a love letter from inside the labyrinth.