The Silence She Carried

She was the one with the calm eyes,

the one who laughed just enough

to blend in but not loud enough to be recognized.

She walked like if she carried a secret,

something weighty nestled between her ribs

pressing on her lungs with each breath.

They claimed she was strong.

They said she had everything together.

They never listened intently enough

to notice the cracks growing beneath her grin.

She sat at the back of the classroom,

near the window, watching the world go by while she remained immobile.

A tempest raged within her,

the kind that shook bones and whispered doubts in the dark of night.

But she never talked about it.

"You are really silent," they would say.

She would nod and give a little smile.

They assumed she had nothing to say.

But she had pages.

Pages of phrases she would never say aloud,

thoughts too keen to express,

and nights spent staring at the ceiling,

attempting to drown out the echoes in her head.

She carried her melancholy in the same way

that the sky carries the weight of a coming storm:

softly and definitely.

One day, she jotted it all down.

Every whispered phrase, swallowed cry, and terror kept her awake.

She left it on the desk before walking out,

hoping that someone—anyone—would finally notice her.

The following day, her seat was empty.

But her words lingered.

For the first time, they listened.