There are times when language fails us, when the words we want to say knot themselves into silence, when we find ourselves unable to articulate the weight we carry—not because we lack the will, but because the emotions run deeper than vocabulary can hold, and in these moments of quiet overwhelm, we seek other ways to speak, not with mouths or pen
There are places within us where time folds, where memory is not behind us but beside us, walking like a shadow that flickers in and out of light depending on what stirs our hearts in the present moment, and it’s in these quiet folds that our truest emotions lie—not the ones we perform for others or suppress out of habit, but the ones that live
There’s a kind of ache that doesn’t announce itself, that doesn’t scream or demand attention, but rather hums quietly beneath the skin, weaving itself into the smallest moments—the pause before a reply, the breath held while watching an empty street, the feeling of returning home to silence so familiar it might as well have a name, and for