I feel heavy.
Not tired — heavy.
Like my chest is holding something I can’t name,
and my silence is louder than anything around me.

I carry heartbreak like it's folded into the fabric of my being.
I carry memories that don’t speak, but press.
I carry questions I can’t answer yet —
what’s next, who I’ll become, if I’ll ever feel seen again.

They say I’m quiet.
Reserved.
But they don’t hear the storms that live under my stillness.

I don’t speak unless it matters,
because life has taught me not every word deserves to live.
Not every space is safe for honesty.
Not every ear will hold my truth without judgment.

But I hold it — every day.
And it gets heavy.

I wish I could cry — fully, not just a tear or two.
But crying feels like surrender, and I’ve been strong for so long
that I forgot what surrender feels like.

Still…
I feel something rising in me.
Not ego. Not pride.
Just… truth.

The truth that I’ve been through too much
to pretend I’m like the rest.
The truth that silence doesn’t mean weakness —
it means I’ve listened to the world and chosen to answer slowly.

And the truth that
even in this heaviness,
I am still here.

Still breathing.
Still standing.
Still healing.

Even if no one sees it — I know it.