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“nobody warns you that silence has a texture. mine feels like a doorknob turned too slow, like a name almost said and swallowed instead. i've gotten good at almost. almost speaking. almost staying. almost being the version of me that doesn't flinch when a room goes quiet. but a room doesn't go quiet on its own. someone always leaves first. someone always lets it. i used to think i was the one who stayed. turns out i was just the one who noticed last. so here's the truth, plain, no dressing: i am not healed. i am just quieter about the wreckage. and maybe that's the whole poem. maybe that's the whole me. still standing in a room that emptied itself out a long time ago, still calling it home.”