People always ask me, "Why are you so quiet?" Like silence is something to be fixed, as if my stillness is an empty space that needs filling. But I’ve seen so many speak just for the sake of being heard, their words crashing over each other, but saying nothing at all. I’m not quiet because I don’t have thoughts—I’m quiet because I carry them carefully. Every word holds weight, and I won’t waste it on things that don’t matter.
I listen more than I speak, not because I’m afraid, but because I know the world is already so loud. There’s something beautiful in the silence, in the moments between words, where the real truths are hiding.
I don’t need to shout to be seen. I don’t need noise to prove I exist. I’m not invisible—I’m present, grounded, and whole. One day, when everything slows down and the noise fades, they’ll hear me. And they’ll realize I was never quiet; they just weren’t listening.