I left the door ajar,
just barely —
a silent plea beneath the noise
of “I’m fine” and
“I’m just tired.”

I wrapped my pain in quiet places,
hid the marks where no one looks —
beneath waistbands,
behind layers,
hoping someone might see past it
without me having to say it.

But every time someone got close,
I turned colder, sharper—
a defense disguised as indifference,
a fortress I hated living in
but couldn’t stop building higher.

They tried, I know they did—
friends with warm hands,
family with concerned eyes—
but I shrugged them off,
convinced I was doing them a favor
by being alone in the storm.

Now the room is quiet again,
the fabric sticks to skin,
and I still can’t say
what’s bleeding inside me.

The world just kept on spinning,
while I stayed stuck,
fading in the spaces between
genuine smiles and forced ones.
And in the end,
everyone seemed to give up
and leave me—
not out of malice,
but because they couldn’t reach
what I was too afraid to show.

But I feel it now,
the echo behind silence,
the weight of a choice unspoken—

this action will have consequences.