She don't talk anymore

She grew up in a household where things were extended till the point, she just don’t want it anymore.

Huge discussions over the smallest things— frustrated the hell out of her..

Gotta go somewhere?

okay let’s plan—

plan for weeks, months

just to cancel at the very moment.

All she was asking was to let her breathe for a while, spend time on her own terms, maybe meet some old friends and get lost somewhere in those times where maybe, she wasn’t just existing but ‘living’.

what’s the need?— she would be asked…

NEED?

she hated the word need— why did everything have to be justified, necessary, logical?

why did she have to need something in order to do it?

WHY COULN’T SHE JUST BE??

It confused her, made her furious, the heavy silences, the endless discussions—

turned her personality into something she didn’t sign up for

everything she ever wanted was delayed, overly discussed, dismissed—

she hated it.

Whenever she spoke, it didn’t matter cause she was too young and naive

Too emotional— dumb apparently.

There was this constant pattern of breaking her down, making her dependent, stripping away her gut instincts, till she questions her every decision—

so, she’ll always need them

Till a point where she forgot she exists—her will?

exists…

It was never about her— it was about them, being vulnerable, needing control

That’s how she learned the habit of staying quiet, to stop discussing

she wouldn’t share, until it was finalized— done, solid, certain.

She’d show the results, not the process, why would she need anyone during the process she’s enough for her, all this wrapped in a fear—why?

because if she failed— they’d laugh

“You're such a looser, you can’t do a thing right, should have asked us, you can’t do anything alone, told you, you’re dumb—looser—silly”

maybe it was all in her head, maybe the whole world was never against her, even with the closest people in her life about the silliest things ever, she won’t discuss anything.

She feared being judged, being given with advice she never asked for—

she liked to flow, it was her thing , she liked to be mysterious, unplanned, raw, real, by heart…

At first glance, it looks like strength, independence.

But let’s not pretend— it gets toxic when it’s born out of fear— fear of judgement, and that was the case for her.

Not asking for help wasn’t bravery— it was survival

she’d write, write and write— but wouldn’t dare to share ever

she feared sympathy,

those eyes that said “Poor girl”

she couldn’t stand it.

She’d rather disappear than be pitied.

There came a point where sadness started feeling…comfortable.

not healing, just familiar

A place where she could cry, didn’t have to try—

being tough…

“The world is a cruel place, I’m such a tiny soul, what can I even do, I hate the world, everyone’s against me. I’m a good person.”

And that’s when it becomes a trap—a loop, where sadness became her home like a cozy blanked she would hide in a rainy morning.

childhood fears, past traumas—nothing would ever be healed till she acknowledge her pain as pain

Alas, in the effort to avoid eyes that pitied her, she became the one who grieved herself every single day.

God forbid—

she was a person, not a performer.

Who was she trying to be tough for, when her gales blew so strong she could barely breathe?