They never noticed
when she stopped waving back—
how her laughter faded
like music from a passing car,
how her shoes stayed clean
for weeks.

once, she chased rain
to the edge of the river,
barefoot, out of breath,
her shadow chasing behind.
they called her wild—
too alive to sit still.

but stillness came.
not with a scream,
just silence,
growing louder by the day.

no one asked
why her side of the bed
was always made.
why she didn’t hum anymore.
as long as she smiled
and passed her tests,
they assumed she was fine.

when they looked for her,
the water led the way—
not the current,
but the quiet reflection
she once stared into
a little too long.

when they found her,
she looked almost asleep.
hair spread out like grass,
hands still.
no bruises—
at least,
not the kind they talk about.

maybe
she just wanted to know
what peace feels like
underneath it all