I don’t speak unless I’m spoken to.
And no one speaks to me anymore.
It’s been nearly a year since my voice danced in the air—
a year of silence, thick as fog,
a year of swallowed words and unwept tears.
I pass through days like a shadow draped in skin,
watching the world move around me
like a film I never auditioned for.
Their laughter rings out like a foreign language
and I sit quietly,
translating joy into a dialect I forgot how to speak.
I look into the eyes of strangers,
but all I find is glass.
No reflection, no flicker of recognition.
I don’t see myself there—
not even the ghost of who I used to be.
Once, I was loud—too loud, maybe.
Once, I laughed too much,
smiled too easily,
believed too deeply in the warmth of others.
Now…
Now I sit at dinner tables like a forgotten plate.
Now I enter rooms and leave no trace.
Now I am a presence mistaken for absence.
They pass by me like wind through hollow trees,
and I ache for something as simple as a hello.
I ache to be acknowledged.
I ache for someone to look at me
as though I matter—
as though I exist outside their periphery.
I’m surrounded by people I once called family,
but they treat me like a stranger,
like a quiet inconvenience in the room.
And I wonder—
what happened to us?
What happened to the girl
who once believed she could be loved
just for being?
I crave being seen.
I crave being spoken to.
But I’ve grown so used to the silence
that even my own thoughts whisper.
They tiptoe in my mind,
afraid to disturb the emptiness I’ve made my home.
Still, I wait.
I wait for someone to break the stillness,
to reach into this quiet and pull me out.
But no one comes.
And so I remain—
a quiet soul in a loud world,
wondering if silence is safer
than being unheard.
Because what’s the point of speaking
if no one ever listens first?