I Didn’t Say Anything

I woke up from a dream
that didn’t feel like mine—
a stranger’s presence,
a pull I didn’t trust,
a moment that almost became
something I couldn’t undo.

I opened my eyes
like escaping a fire
no one else could see.

Maybe it’s the things I’ve watched,
or the fears I never name—
how they slip into sleep
and rewrite me
without permission.

Morning didn’t ask questions.
It never does.

I walked into the day half-alive,
skipping meals,
carrying a body that feels present
but a soul that keeps stepping back.

In class, I took my usual corner—
the place where people exist
without being noticed.

But even silence can be humiliated.

A word—careless, light—
landed on me like it knew
exactly where to hurt.

And I broke, quietly.

Three witnesses.
That’s all it takes
to feel exposed forever.

A teacher who didn’t mean it.
Two girls who didn’t ask.

And me—
trying to hold my pieces together
like nothing slipped through.

I keep telling myself:
don’t be trouble,
don’t be weight,
don’t be the reason someone feels uncomfortable.

So I shrink.
I soften.
I disappear in ways
no one applauds.

But still—

there’s this unbearable feeling
that I am the problem
in every room I enter.

That my existence
comes with an apology
I can never finish saying.

“I’m sorry for being here.
I’m sorry I couldn’t vanish.
I’m sorry I breathe
when I don’t know how to belong.”

Even my tears hesitate now.
As if they’re tired
of proving I’m hurting.

And my heart—
it keeps holding things
I never asked to feel.

Heavy.
Uninvited.
Endless.

But listen—

if you’ve ever felt this way,
like you’re too much
and not enough
in the same breath…

like you’re quietly breaking
in places no one checks—

then this is the truth
I’m still trying to believe:

we didn’t disappear.

Not after the dream.
Not after the shame.
Not after the moment
we thought would erase us.

We stayed.

And maybe that’s not strength.
Maybe it’s just survival.

I want to improve...