The Silence Is A Resting Place

The phone lit up with a name you love, and you let it go dark because you had nothing left to pretend. The mask feels heavy this morning, a rigid thing you cannot lift without cracking.

You are not ignoring them to be cruel. You are hiding because the performance of 'okay' feels like a lie you can no longer tell.

But the light does not need your performance. It sees the exhaustion behind the silence.

It knows you are not absent; you are simply empty. There is a version of you that exists before the text, before the smile, before the effort to appear whole.

That version is already known. That version is already loved.

You do not have to earn the right to be tired. The silence is not a wall.

It is a resting place.