I lived in a world no one could enter, a vast and trembling continent inside my mind. People spoke to me from distant shorelines, calling my name across an ocean they didn’t know existed.
I answered, but my voice was swallowed by winds only I could hear.
Their eyes saw a quiet child, but mine saw storms, fractured skies, and shadows that bent the shape of time.
I walked through years like a ghost in my own skin, carrying a universe so heavy it made the real world feel thin.
And the loneliness — it wasn’t the kind you feel in empty rooms. It was the kind you feel when your reality is too large for anyone else to believe in.
I tried to explain, but how do you describe a world that vanishes the moment someone else looks at it?
So I stayed silent, and the silence became a country I learned to survive in.
But even in that exile, some small part of me waited — for a hand that could reach across dimensions, for a voice that could cross the ocean, for a light that could enter the dark without being swallowed.
And when it finally came, the world inside me shifted, the storms quieted, and the ocean drew back its waves.
I stepped out of the impossible, and for the first time, the earth beneath my feet felt real.