Things I Never Said Out Loud

There are words

I never said.

Not because I didn’t feel them,

but because they stuck—

right between my throat

and my pride.

I walked away

from so many moments

where all I had to do was

open my mouth.

But silence always

arrived first.

I should’ve said:

“I needed you.”

But I didn’t want to look weak.

Or desperate.

So I just smiled

like I was okay.

And you believed me.

There were nights

I stared at the ceiling

thinking of things

I’d never admit—

even to myself.

Like how much it hurt

to be the strong one

all the time.

How exhausting

it is to pretend

you’re unshakable

when inside,

you’re breaking quietly.

I wish I had told you:

“I wasn’t fine.”

But we treat pain

like it’s impolite.

Like honesty should be saved

for private rooms

and empty notebooks.

There’s this version of me

that still lingers in the past—

the one who wanted to scream

but whispered instead.

The one who watched people leave

without asking them to stay

because I thought

if they loved me,

they wouldn’t need

an invitation.

To the person I lost

without a goodbye:

I still remember

how your absence

filled every corner of the room.

And I hated

how no one else noticed.

To the friend I let fade:

I wish I’d called.

I told myself

you’d reach out too—

but maybe you needed me

more than I realized.

To my younger self:

You didn’t deserve

to carry so much silence.

You were allowed

to be soft.

To feel.

To ask for help.

But I never said these things.

Not out loud.

Not to anyone.

Instead,

I buried them in poems,

in long walks alone,

in unsent letters

and hollow laughs.

There were days

I spoke only to my shadow.

At least it never interrupted.

And nights

I rehearsed conversations

that never happened—

just to feel

a little more whole.

If I could go back,

maybe I’d be braver.

Maybe I’d say:

“I miss you.”

“I forgive you.”

“I’m not okay.”

“Please stay.”

“Please leave.”

“Please… just see me.”

Some truths

live inside us

like unopened envelopes—

we don’t know

what they say anymore,

but we’re scared

to read them.

So I’m writing this now,

because it’s easier

to whisper into a page

than to speak

to someone’s face.

Maybe that’s cowardly.

Maybe it’s healing.

Maybe it’s both.

I hope one day,

these words find

who they were meant for.

Even if that person is me.

And if you’ve ever left things unsaid too—just know, you’re not alone in the silence.