There’s a particular cruelty in quiet
when it’s chosen like a fortress
a retreat disguised as cowardice,
a shield instead of a bridge.
We are so good at vanishing,
becoming ghosts in our own lives.
It’s almost poetic, if it weren’t
so achingly human.
I want to ask if you know
the weight silence leaves behind,
how it collects in the corners
of someone else’s chest.
Once, words were seeds we planted—
sprouting leaves of understanding.
But now, untended, they wither;
the roots curdle into resentment.
There is no closure in disappearance,
no surrender, just a lingering ache.
And yes, the heart beats quietly,
but only because it remembers.