It doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t even whisper.
It waits.
The first silence
after the collapse —
not peace,
but presence.
Not the calm after war,
but the echo
of everything
you tried to outrun.
No music.
No mantra.
Just breath
in a room
that finally stopped lying.
You don’t feel safe.
You feel true.
No story to hold.
No version to perform.
Just bones.
And the sound
they make
when they stop bracing.
This isn’t healing.
It’s remembering
what didn’t die
when everything else did.
You thought
you’d need saving,
when all you really needed
was stillness —
loud enough
to let your soul
speak.
And here it is:
not screaming,
not singing,
just saying:
“I never left.”
