AnnabelleleighWhisper

28 / F / Oklahoma
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the quiet floorThere’s a specific kind of quiet that feels less like peace and more like a missing floor. You sit in a room full of things you chose, under a ceiling you pay for, and realize the space isn't filled by any of it. / The air just feels thin. Like if you spoke, the sound would go out and never find a wall to bounce back from. It’s the hollow weight of a house after the power goes out—everything is still exactly where it belongs, but the current is gone, and the dark feels heavier because it’s familiar. / You watch the world move through a glass pane. People are talking, reacting, burning through their days with a friction you can't seem to spark in yourself right now. It isn't a sharp pain. Sharp pain would at least mean there's something there to hurt. This is just the dull, gray ache of an echo where a voice used to be, a draft coming from a door you can’t find to close.
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