The Silence of My Voice

I never thought silence could feel like a punishment. Yet here I am, in a villa perched on the cliffs above Cavtat, listening to the Adriatic stretch itself endlessly before me, and realizing that the silence I have chosen is not freedom—it is a sentence.

I used to sing. Not casually, not for the faint appreciation of a café crowd. I sang in halls where chandeliers glimmered like captured stars, where the audience held its breath at every note, and I gave them all I had. My voice carried joy, sorrow, longing, despair—everything a heart could feel. And people loved it. They loved me. I had fans who followed my every performance, journalists who chronicled my life, and friends who thought they knew me.

But I lied.

I hid a secret beneath the glamour, the applause, the sparkling dresses. A secret that, if it were ever revealed, would shatter the world I had built. I have carried it for decades now, and it has followed me here, to this villa, to the Adriatic cliffs, to a life of quiet, fearful seclusion.

The mornings are worst. The sunlight slants through the cypresses like needles, stabbing at the walls of my heart. I brew my coffee in silence, the aroma of roasted beans mingling with salt and sea. The harbour below is waking, the fishermen shouting to each other, their nets clinking. I envy them. Their lives are transparent; my life is a web of shadows.

I sit by the piano, the one relic of my old life that I allow myself to touch. Dust covers the keys, but I can remember every chord, every interval, every vibration of sound as if it were yesterday. I press a note. It trembles, uncertain, like me. Another, then another. Slowly, a melody emerges—a minor key, full of regret and longing.

And then I remember.

The last concert I gave. The theatre was packed, the lights sparkling off crystal chandeliers, and I wore a silver gown that caught the audience's eyes like a mirror to my soul. I sang with every ounce of my being, knowing—deep in the pit of my stomach—that it would be the last time anyone would hear me. I smiled, I bowed, I let them cheer, but my eyes were dry because tears would have betrayed the truth I could never reveal.

After the final note, I left through the side exit, avoiding cameras, avoiding reporters, avoiding the eyes of people who trusted me. I made my way into the night, into a life of silence. That night, I decided to hide everything. The secret, the loss, the truth. I never went back.

It wasn't just fear that drove me. It was guilt. A guilt so sharp it carved its own chambers in my chest. Because my secret wasn't just mine—it involved someone else. Someone I loved. Someone I failed. And even now, years later, my heart pounds when I think of it.

I glance at the sea. The Adriatic is deceptively calm today, silver under a cloudless sky. Still, it hides its own tempests, its own treacheries like me.

The villa is silent, except for the occasional whisper of wind through the cypresses. I walk through the rooms, past photographs of concerts, friends, lovers. Each image is a fragment of a life I abandoned, a life full of music, warmth, and laughter. I trace the edges of a photograph of myself on stage, the spotlight catching the curves of my smile. I remember the applause, the cheers, the feeling of being alive in a way I have never felt since.

And I remember him.

He was the reason I could no longer sing. The reason I walked away. His smile, his hand in mine, the way he believed in me even when I doubted myself. I loved him more than life itself. But I could not protect him, and that failure became my curse. The secret I hide is not merely about my own shame—it is about his absence, about the night everything went wrong.

I still see the image of him in my mind, the way he looked when he trusted me completely, before the chaos tore us apart. I have told myself a thousand times that no one can know, that to reveal the secret is to destroy not only my life but his memory as well. And so I remain silent. I remain hidden.

Today, like most days, I walk along the cliffs. The wind whips my hair across my face, stinging my eyes with salt. Below, the waves crash against the rocks, relentless, merciless. Sometimes, I imagine letting myself fall, letting the sea claim me. But I do not. I cannot. Because my secret is tethered to me, and as long as I live, I must carry it.

A shadow moves across the terrace behind me. I stiffen. Visitors are rare; anyone who approaches is usually a stranger, a local who has heard rumours, or a journalist seeking the past that I so desperately hide. I turn slowly. A man stands there, unsure, hesitant. He is not someone I know. I can see it in his eyes. Curiosity, yes—but also something deeper, something dangerous.

"Excuse me," he says, his voice carrying over the wind. "Are you…?" He falters.

I shake my head. "No one," I say, quietly, firmly. "You must be mistaken."

He nods, awkwardly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude." He retreats, but the encounter leaves my heart racing. Every knock, every question, every gaze feels like a threat. One slip, one word, and the secret could escape.

Evening comes quickly. The Adriatic turns molten gold, and shadows creep along the terrace. I light a candle, its flickering flame a fragile barrier against the darkness. I play the piano again, letting my fingers wander through chords that speak the words I cannot. Music is my confessional, my silent witness.

But tonight, the melody breaks. A memory surfaces—a scream, a flash of firelight, the sound of shattering glass. It is the night everything ended, the night I lost him, the night I became a ghost. My hands tremble over the keys. The notes fall into dissonance. I am no longer in control; the past is clawing its way into the present.

I remember running through the streets of Split, the sirens screaming, the smoke choking the sky. I remember his face, terrified, reaching for me. And I remember making a choice—a choice I have never forgiven myself for. I left him behind. I ran. I survived. But he did not. And that is the secret I carry, heavier than any fame, heavier than any applause, heavier than life itself.

In the fading light of evening, I light a candle. Its flame dances on the walls, flickering across the photographs of concerts and friends and moments frozen in time. I stare at them, feeling the distance grow, feeling the impossibility of return. My secret remains locked away, unspoken, a ghost tethered to my heart.

The candle flickers and dies. Darkness envelops me. I feel the weight of years pressing down, the accumulation of every lie, every omission, every act of survival that demanded my silence. I am trapped in my own life, a life that feels like a prison built from love and guilt.

I close the piano lid softly and sit in silence, listening to the faint hum of the waves. The cypresses sway, the gulls cry overhead, and the Adriatic whispers its eternal, indifferent song. I close my eyes and let the sound wrap around me. It does not judge, it does not demand, it simply exists. And for now, that is enough.

I stand and look out over the cliffs. The sea stretches endlessly, indifferent. And I whisper to the night, to the waves, to the cypresses: "I am sorry." The words hang in the air, unheard by anyone, unchangeable.

Tomorrow, I will rise again, walk the cliffs, tend to my garden, and play the piano in cautious tones. I will smile when strangers pass my gate, speak politely when necessary, and retreat into the solace of my own silence. The secret will remain, as it has for years, a shadow behind every note, behind every word, behind every breath.

And perhaps that is the price of survival. To live, to endure, but to remain unseen. To carry the weight of the past, and to hide it behind the beauty of a broken song.