I Didn’t Say That Out Loud Challenge Winners

I Didn’t Say That Out Loud
I didn’t say that out loud. At least, I don’t think I did.

It started at the office. A regular Tuesday. Coffee, emails, nodding politely at people I barely like. Then came the meeting. The kind where people talk in circles, and nothing actually happens. I sat at the corner of the conference room table, zoning out.

In my head, I thought:
“God, I wish Mark would just shut up.”

And that’s when Mark stopped speaking mid-sentence.

Dead silence. Everyone stared at him. He blinked like he’d been slapped.

“I—I forgot what I was saying,” he muttered, sitting down slowly.

Weird.

But I didn’t say anything. I thought it. Right?

It happened again during lunch. I passed by Jenna, who always acts like she’s the main character in a high school drama. She was telling a story about her “insane weekend in the Hamptons.”

In my head:
“No one cares, Jenna.”

She stopped talking instantly. Her face dropped. Then she stood up, tray in hand, and left the cafeteria without a word.

People watched her go, confused.

I didn’t move. Just sat there with my sandwich, heartbeat in my ears.

I wasn’t saying anything. Was I?

I tested it with my roommate that night. While he was going on about his crypto investments, I thought:
“Shut up about Dogecoin, man.”

He froze. Then muttered, “I’ve talked too much,” and left the room.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts weren’t safe anymore. Every sarcastic jab, every suppressed insult—was it leaking into the world?

I started walking on eggshells. Avoiding people. Thinking only neutral, boring thoughts. I even tried meditating—counting sheep, listing grocery items—anything but real thoughts.

But thoughts have a way of slipping.

At the grocery store, a kid was screaming in the cereal aisle. Kicking. Crying. I thought:
“Someone shut that kid up.”

He choked. Literally choked. The mom screamed. I froze. I hadn’t touched him. But he gasped, coughed, and cried even harder. I bolted.

By the next day, I was spiraling. Paranoid. Every time someone stumbled or fell silent, I wondered:
Was that me?

Then came the elevator.

I was alone with Mr. Halstrom, the CEO. He rarely spoke to anyone. I looked straight ahead.

And then, I thought it.

I didn’t mean to, but it just bubbled up.

“I bet he’s cheating on his wife.”

He exhaled sharply. “Who told you?” he whispered, almost shaking.

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My lips hadn’t moved.

He got off two floors early and didn’t look back.

It’s been three weeks. I don’t go to work. I don’t go outside. I wear noise-cancelling headphones and tape my mouth shut, like that’ll stop the thoughts from leaking. But I know better now.

I’m dangerous.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this power.

But then again…

What if I could control it?

What if I stop suppressing the thoughts and start choosing them? Directing them. Using them.

This world is built on lies and fake smiles. Maybe it’s time people started hearing the truth.

Maybe I’m not a curse.

Maybe I’m a cure.