It started quietly. Not with thunder. Not with heartbreak. But with a shift so small, I almost missed it.
A pause before answering. A laugh that didn't reach my eyes.
A smile that felt more like surrender.
At first, I called it growing up. Then I called it healing. Eventually, I stopped calling it anything at all.
There are wounds you dress with language. You wrap them in poetry, therapy speak, half-truths dressed as insight. You tell yourself you've let go—when really, you've only learned to hold the pain without flinching. But the body keeps score.
And silence, no matter how graceful, is still a response.
There came a moment—quiet, unmarked, unnamed—when I stopped recognizing myself. And I didn't tell anyone. Not because I didn't want to. But because I didn't know where the story started.
This is not a guide. It's not a love letter. It's not a call-out or a redemption arc.
This is the echo after the fall. The ache between endings and beginnings. The slow unraveling of every version of myself I built to survive.
If you've ever felt like something is off—without knowing what…
If you've ever stayed quiet because the truth felt too heavy to say out loud… If you've ever learned to wear your own detachment like armor…
You're not alone.
This is where the silence breaks.