The Voice That Only I Could Hear

When I was eight years old, I started hearing a voice.

It wasn’t scary—not like the monsters under my bed or the thunder that shook my windows at night. It was soft. Kind. A whisper that curled around my thoughts like a blanket. At first, I thought it was imaginary. Kids make things up all the time, right?

But this voice was different. It didn’t play with me or ask for tea parties. It spoke only when I was alone—usually at night, usually when the world was quiet.

It said things like:

“You’re not alone.”

“I see you.”

“You’re stronger than you think.”

I never told anyone about it.

Not because I was afraid they’d call me crazy. But because some part of me knew—this voice was mine alone. A secret stitched into my soul.

By the time I turned sixteen, the world got louder. School. Expectations. Silence became rare, and the voice faded. I missed it more than I’d admit. Sometimes I would lie in bed, headphones off, phone down, heart open, just waiting.

But the voice stayed quiet.

Until the night everything broke.

My father died suddenly. A heart attack. No warning. No goodbyes.

The house was too quiet after that—but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that presses on your chest, the kind that makes clocks feel louder and memories too sharp.

I cried that night, alone in my room, biting my pillow to muffle the sound.

Then it returned.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a whisper, barely above the hum of my tears:

“Breathe.”

I sat up, frozen.

“You’re still here. And so am I.”

That was the moment I stopped questioning whether the voice was real.

It didn’t need a body. It didn’t need proof. It was there when I needed it most—and that was enough.

Over time, I started asking it questions.

Who are you?

Why me?

Are you a part of me? A ghost? God? My father?

It never gave a name. But it gave guidance.

When I didn’t know how to face school after grief:

“Walk in. One step at a time.”

When I felt invisible among my friends:

“They don’t need to see you for you to be real.”

When I thought of giving up on myself:

“Stay. Please stay.”

Years passed. I moved cities. I changed jobs. I fell in and out of love.

But the voice stayed.

Not daily. Not always when I wanted. But always when I needed.

And I realized something:

Maybe we all have a voice.

A quiet part of us that stays kind when the world isn’t.

A soft reminder that even when everything outside feels broken, there’s still something unbreakable inside.

Maybe most people just learn to drown it out—with noise, with fear, with pretending they don’t need it.

But I listened.

The last time the voice spoke to me was six months ago.

I was standing on the rooftop of my apartment, heart heavy, thoughts storming, wind against my face. I had just lost my job. The love of my life had left. My chest ached in that specific way that doesn’t come from the body—but the soul.

And the voice said:

“This is not the end of your story.”

That was all.

And it was enough.

I haven’t heard the voice since. But I no longer fear the silence.

Because now, I am the voice.

I whisper to myself when I’m afraid. I write letters I don’t send. I talk to strangers with warmth they didn’t expect. I hold space for pain, and joy, and all the little things in between.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ve become the voice that someone else will one day hear.

When their world goes quiet.

When their heart feels heavy.

When they need to remember:

“You are not alone.”

Written by A.K.