when the noise returns
“sooooo simple words—
but somehow
they slip past your tongue
like i wasn’t worth the syllables,
not even the easy ones.
a “how are you”
costs nothing
until you never say it.
until i start answering questions
you never asked
in the dark,
with my own hands.
i can’t count on you
to be there
when the whole world goes loud,
and my heart folds
into the quietest corner of the room—
the place i go
when i need someone,
but only have myself.
when the noise returns,
so does the ache.
a thousand voices,
all saying nothing i need to hear.
and i’m left curling into myself,
like a question mark
no one bothers to answer.
you never noticed
how i stopped asking,
how i stopped waiting.
how the silence became
less of a punishment
and more of a shelter.
i taught myself
to speak in soft apologies,
to listen louder than i lived,
to shrink inside your shadow
just to feel close.
and maybe
that’s what love shouldn’t feel like—
a place where i lose my voice
just to keep yours echoing.
i reread the old texts,
the way you used to speak in bursts,
and then nothing.
like i was a season
you waited to pass.
like i was noise
you muted
because you could.
and still—
i stayed.
long after the music stopped,
long after the song turned to static.
you didn’t hear
how quiet i became.
how small.
how careful.
how i whispered “i’m fine”
as if that made it true.
and maybe one day,
you’ll find someone
who bends just right—
who speaks soft
and never asks
for more than you give.
but i’ve stopped folding.
i’ve stopped waiting for the volume
of your love
to match the silence it left.
because when the noise returns,
i no longer flinch.
i no longer search for you
in the spaces
you never filled.
i listen now
for the sound of my own voice—
and it’s steady.
it’s soft,
but it’s mine.”