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I stood still before the final frame, where motion ceased and meaning lingered in the hush between heartbeats. It was not just an ending—it was the silent collapse of every hope, every battle etched into my bones. Yet as I reached for words to make sense of it, to shape the chaos into something understandable, I felt it unravel. Naming the ache did not honor it—it caged it. The moment I gave it language, the vastness narrowed; the storm became a story, the wound became a word. And in that naming, I lost the raw truth of what I lived through. Some truths are too sacred for syllables—they demand to be felt, not spoken.
