> Everyone thinks silence means peace.
But silence in my world is heavy.
It's the sound of a message I haven't answered.
The echo of my brother's voice I'll never hear again.
The weight of decisions I've never had the right to make.
Tonight, I'm in my room. The kind of night where even the walls feel like strangers.
I'm lying on my back, eyes on the ceiling, waiting for sleep that doesn't come — again.
My phone lights up.
"You should think about it. France isn't far. And I'd take care of you."
Another offer.
Another man.
Another country.
They all sound like dreams until I remember what they always want in return.
I don't reply.
I just stare at the message until my eyes burn.
Maybe I'm hoping the screen will catch fire and erase me with it.
---
Sometimes I wonder what my brother would say if he were still here.
He had a way of making my fears feel like whispers instead of earthquakes.
He would've said something like:
> "If they're offering cages with soft pillows, you're still not free."
But he's gone.
And all the people left in my life come with strings.
Some made of love. Some of money. Most of expectation.
---
I tried to talk to Mom once.
I said, "What if I just stayed here? What if I didn't go anywhere?"
She looked at me like I had just said I wanted to drown.
As if staying was failure.
But going — even with no plan, no support, no safety — was success.
She doesn't know that every road I take feels like a cliff.
And I'm tired of falling before I even start.
---
> I want to go.
I want to stay.
I want to live.
I want to disappear.
I want everything to pause — just for one damn minute.
But life keeps moving.
And I'm still here.
Stuck in the silence that everyone else calls peace.
---