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It’s that kind of silence that doesn’t come from peace, but from exhaustion.
The kind that settles deep in your chest and grows heavier each time you try to speak. Words don’t get stuck in your throat — they vanish long before reaching it, swallowed by the weight pressing down from inside.
It feels like every thought has turned to lead, every breath a small act of defiance. You want to say something — anything — but the noise inside your head drowns out every possible sentence. It’s not fear. It’s not pride. It’s something colder, quieter. A slow collapse of the self under too much feeling, too much thinking, too much everything.
You sit there, surrounded by air that feels too dense to breathe, watching life continue around you while you stay suspended in that invisible gravity.
You’re not fine. You’re not broken either.
You’re just… muted. As if the world has pressed its hand over your mouth, and all you can do is listen to the sound of your own silence.
