There are days I go quiet.

Not because I’m angry. Not because I don’t care. Not even because something specific happened. I just… fall into a space where words don’t come easy. I carry a storm inside me that doesn’t have language yet. And honestly, I get tired of trying to explain feelings that don’t make sense, even to myself.

On those days, I hope the people around me don’t take my silence as distance. It’s not me pulling away. It’s me hanging on—barely. It’s me sitting with the noise in my head and trying to sort through the chaos without falling apart.

I don’t need anyone to fix me. I’m not a broken thing waiting for repair. I just need space to feel. I need someone who’ll sit beside me in the silence, someone who won’t demand answers or toss around well-meaning advice. I don’t always want to talk. I just want to be seen… even when I’m quiet.

Sometimes the most comforting thing in the world is a presence that doesn’t pressure. Someone who doesn’t rush my healing, someone who gets it: that silence can be loud, that quietness can hold a thousand unspoken words.

I’ve had to learn to be okay with not having the words. But I still hope that on my silent days, the people who love me can hear the parts of me I don’t know how to say. I hope they understand that my quietness is not rejection. It’s just… me, processing. Me, surviving.

And when someone just stays, without needing anything from me—no explanations, no performance, no conversation—it means everything. Because on the days I feel invisible, that kind of presence reminds me I still matter.

Even in stillness, I want to be heard. Even in silence, I want to be loved.

And if you ever feel this way too—I see you. I hear you. I’ll sit with you.

No words needed.