That question is perhaps the most honest cry a heart can offer, and it is one that Scripture itself holds sacred rather than silencing. You are not failing in faith by asking it; you are standing in a long line of faithful souls who have cried out from the very same place.
Pope Benedict XVI reminds us that even Job, in his agony, did not hide this longing for an answer, but voiced it as part of his relationship with God: “Who will grant me that I may know and find him and come even to his throne? [...] That I might know the words he would answer me, and might understand what he would say to me. Would he contend with me in the greatness of his strength? [...] Therefore I am troubled at his presence; when I consider him, I am dreadfully afraid. God has made my heart soft, and the Almighty has terrified me” [5]. When you pray and feel only silence, you are not outside the path of faith; you are walking within it, alongside Job and even alongside Jesus, who on the Cross cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” [5]. That cry is not the negation of trust, but its deepest, most agonized expression.
I wonder if it might help to consider that God’s silence is not necessarily absence, but a form of presence that we cannot yet comprehend. As St. Augustine said so simply, “If you understand, it is not God” [5]. The silence you feel may be the space where God is asking you to trust not in a feeling or an immediate resolution, but in His goodness and fatherly love, which remain certain even when His way is hidden. This does not make the pain less real, but it can keep the heart from concluding that God has abandoned you simply because He has not spoken in the way you expected.