Beneath the Surface

They asked, their voices laced with curiosity, "What do you hate the most?" The question hung in the air, awaiting a response that would reveal the deepest, darkest corners of my soul. I paused, collecting my thoughts as a sad smile crept onto my face.

"Calmness," I whispered, the word barely audible. My eyes drifted downward, as if the weight of my admission was too much to bear.

They looked at me, perplexed, unsure of how to respond. How could anyone hate calmness, that serene and peaceful state that everyone craves? But they didn't understand. They didn't know that every moment of calmness I had ever experienced was like the eerie stillness before a storm.

It was as if the universe was lulling me into a false sense of security, only to unleash a torrent of chaos and destruction upon me. The calmness was a cruel joke, a tease that left me breathless and battered.

I knew I was strong enough to overcome whatever storm came my way. I had proven it time and time again, picking up the pieces of my shattered life and rebuilding. But that didn't change the fact that I dreaded the calmness.

It wasn't just the storm that followed that I feared; it was the anticipation, the knowing that it was coming. The calmness was like a ticking time bomb, a constant reminder that peace was only temporary.

I didn't want to live in a state of perpetual anxiety, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't want to be conditioned to associate calmness with impending doom.

So, I stood by my answer. I hated calmness, not because I didn't crave peace, but because I knew that it came with a price I wasn't willing to pay.