Bonny Between Truth and Tears | The Psychology of Silence
There is a thin line between telling someone the truth and watching that truth hurt them.
Psychologically, we like to believe that answers bring closure. That if we could understand why someone behaved a certain way, why a relationship deteriorated, or why a familiar face suddenly became a stranger, we would finally know where to put the pain. We could give it a name, place it somewhere in our memory, and move on.
But human behaviour rarely offers the courtesy of a complete explanation.
There will be times when we are left with unanswered questions. How desperately we cling to the need to provide an answer, yet cannot say it. We act like geniuses, complicating things with our literature, taking pride in how articulate we are, yet the shadows of a simple, straightforward question keep haunting us.
The difficulty is that resemblance is not certainty. The most difficult thing is to sit with someone, acknowledge their shaken silhouette, and deliberately decide not to turn away.
It is an ongoing conversation between being a writer and being a person who refuses to acknowledge the truth that they, too, can be avoided.
Being a writer who enjoys psychology and tortures her characters through writing doesn't give me a ticket to avoid their pain by simply negating their experiences.
They might be uncomfortable, resentful, indifferent, or simply unwilling to reopen a chapter they have already closed. The same silence can carry entirely different meanings, depending on who inhabits it.
Yet the person on the receiving end rarely experiences silence as an abstract psychological phenomenon.
They experience it personally. They remember the conversations that once came easily. They compare the present with what existed before. They begin to wonder when familiarity became estrangement and whether they missed something along the way.
It becomes a test of whether the past still matters, whether the relationship meant anything, or whether two people who once knew each other have become strangers by mutual agreement—or without one at all.
And when someone asks us to explain that silence, we are placed in an uncomfortable position.
Do we offer the explanation they seem to be searching for, even when we cannot know whether it is true? Do we tell them that perhaps the other person has moved on? That perhaps they no longer wish to maintain the relationship? Or do we remain silent ourselves, afraid that an honest possibility might wound someone who is already hurting?
There is a difference between helping someone understand their pain and giving that pain a story they might mistake for the truth.
I was reminded of this distinction when someone sat across from me and asked a question I couldn't answer.
That was one of those days when I was asked to answer for what I saw. To watch someone shatter into shards, collect their tears, and still seal my lips around a truth they needed my presence to bear.
Presence only.
Someone sat me down and told me how badly they had felt when someone they had known for decades dodged them in close settings. They wanted nothing more than a plain, bland hello.
They saw each other, yet neither acknowledged the other.
I saw their eyes locked on the wall behind me.
They kept deflecting my gaze whenever I wanted to speak, returning to the same persistent question.
“Why didn't they say hello?”
I wanted to be ruthless. Clear about what it was, whatever it was. But I was caught in a seesaw situation. If I said something, I might hurt them. If I said nothing, I might hurt them even more by dismissing their questions.
Eventually, they choked up while explaining. The conversation went out of control, and I didn't speak a single word except to nod.
I have been studying relationships for years, observing them. Even my stories follow that lane. Gosh, this was hard. I couldn't find anything to say.
I wanted them to cry out whatever they had been holding inside. I thought I must wait. Let their dam break. Let the tears fall and slide. After long minutes of shattering silence, they asked me again.
“Bonny, why?”
I believed they had harboured a dead relationship, hoping to rekindle something through a hello.
Perhaps that need had crawled back to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged. Perhaps it was that need that shattered their projection of having moved on.
And there I was, sitting across from them, being asked to explain a silence that wasn't mine.
What was I supposed to say?
About the Author
VB Bonny is an Indian author of romantic thrillers, slow-burn romance, and poetry. Her stories explore complicated relationships, psychological tension, betrayal, and the darker corners of human nature. Outside fiction, she finds inspiration in everyday encounters and intriguing strangers who seem to have stepped straight out of a story.
Through Memoirs of Bonny, she shares these observations with humour, curiosity, and a writer’s eye for the extraordinary hidden in ordinary life.
