.

Sometimes I feel as though I was born

with a heart far too fragile for this world

and a mind far too loud for silence.

The older I become, the more I realize

that loneliness does not always arrive in

empty rooms; sometimes it hides itself

inside crowded conversations,

behind soft smiles,

beneath the gentle glow of city lights

reflected on rain-soaked streets.

People look at me and see composure,

but they do not hear the endless

symphony of thoughts collapsing inside

my head every

night when the moon hangs quietly

above the window and sleep

refuses to find me.

There are evenings when memories

drift back to me like ghosts wrapped

in perfume and cigarette smoke,

lingering long after they should have

disappeared. I think about every

version of myself I had

to abandon just to survive certain

chapters of my life. I think about how

exhausting it is to

carry oceans of emotion inside a

body that was taught to remain calm

and graceful no matter how violently the

storm rages within. Perhaps that is why I

became so attached to midnight skies,

cold air, fading music,

and empty roads — because they resemble

the kind of sadness that never asks to be

understood, only felt.

And maybe that is the cruelest part of growing up:

learning how to become your own hiding place.

Learning how to swallow every trembling feeling

before it escapes your lips. Learning how to sit

quietly while your heart breaks in languages nobody

around you would ever notice. Some nights I wonder

if people would still call me “strong” if they could hear

the way my thoughts beg for peace when the world

finally grows silent.