The Silence That's Too Loud

It starts like it always does. With a low hum in their chest. Something that itches under the skin, spreading through their veins until it feels like their whole body is vibrating.

It’s a pressure, like the weight of something heavy pushing down, trying to crush them from the inside out. They can feel it—the way it rises, how it eats at them. The anger. The frustration. The feeling that everything is wrong.

The world outside is loud. People are loud. Their footsteps, their voices, the way they laugh too much, too loudly.

Everything feels like it’s designed to irritate, to make them snap. And they’re so tired of it. Of all of it. The constant noise. The constant demand for their attention, their energy, their time. No one sees it, not really. They just see the surface, the still waters.

No one notices the storm beneath.

They grit their teeth, fingers curled into tight fists, nails biting into the skin of their palms. The anger builds until it’s sharp, like a knife pressed into their chest.

It’s suffocating. They can’t breathe. And it’s not because of what anyone has done to them—it’s because of what’s been done to themselves. The years of swallowing everything, keeping it all inside like it’s just a little too much to handle. The years of pretending, of hiding behind a mask that’s just a little too tight.

The thing that no one understands is that it’s not just anger. It’s everything.

Everything they’ve been holding back for so long. The hurt, the sadness, the emptiness. It’s all rolled up into this suffocating rage that claws at them, desperate to break free.

It starts small.

A voice too loud across the room. A question that is too simple, but that makes them feel like they’re being interrogated. The way their fingers twitch, wanting to curl into fists, wanting to hurt something, anything, just to make it stop. To make the pain stop.

But they don’t. They don’t lash out, not yet. They keep it inside. They swallow it down.

They stay quiet. Too quiet.

They go through the motions, nodding when it’s expected, giving just enough of a response to get by. But underneath, they’re burning.

Everything annoys them.

The sound of someone chewing too loudly. The way someone’s asking them about their weekend like they care, when they can barely remember the last time someone actually wanted to know. The way someone says something so casual, like it’s just a simple observation, and it hits them harder than they ever expected.

Why does everyone around them get to exist in peace? Why does everyone else get the luxury of being seen, being understood, while they’re stuck in this pit of anger and loneliness?

They can’t stand it. They can’t stand how everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion while they’re stuck, thrashing, barely holding on to their sanity.

They want to scream. They want to shout at the top of their lungs, to tell the world to leave them the hell alone, to just get off their back. They want to throw something. Break something. Punch something until their knuckles are raw, bruised, bleeding.

They don’t. Not yet. But they think about it. They think about the impact, the release, the way it would feel to just hit until it hurts, until the pressure inside their chest finally eases up.

The pain of the bruises would be something they could control. They could make the world pay attention, make it acknowledge that they’re not invisible.

But no one notices. Not really.

They can throw all the hints they want, give every silent plea for someone to see them. But it never works. They’re always just... there. A face in the crowd, someone people look through, never at.

Even when they speak, it’s like their words don’t matter. It’s like no one really cares. They ask meaningless questions, give meaningless answers, and pretend that it’s enough.

“Are you okay?”

“Are you sure you’re fine?”

“What’s wrong? You look upset.”

It’s never enough. Because it’s not that they’re upset. It’s that they’re tired.

Tired of pretending. Tired of being asked the same empty questions over and over, when the truth is no one really wants to know.

They don’t want sympathy. They don’t want some half-assed answer that makes everything sound like it’s fine when it’s not.

They want to be understood. But they can’t say that. They can’t let anyone see how badly they need it. Because if they do, they’ll be exposed. And the last thing they need is to be vulnerable to the world that already ignores them.

So they walk away. Quietly. Silently. They make themselves small, because it’s easier than standing up. Easier than confronting the rage that makes them want to break everything in their path. Easier than admitting that they’re just so fucking tired.

They sit alone in their room, fists still clenched, body still tense. It’s all there. The anger, the hurt, the crushing loneliness. It presses against them from all sides, like walls closing in. They can’t escape it.

No matter how hard they try, no matter how much they shut people out, it never goes away. It’s always there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to explode.

And then they start hitting. Not the walls, not the furniture. But their own hands. Knuckles against the fabric of the bag, hitting over and over until it feels like they’re striking something real, something that will feel the pain.

They hit until the sting in their fists matches the one in their chest. They hit until their knuckles are bruised, until the blood starts to stain their skin. And even then, it’s not enough. The ache doesn’t go away. The world still feels too loud, too heavy, too suffocating.

They wipe the blood off their hands and wonder if anyone will notice. If anyone would care. If anyone would look past the anger and see the hurt.

If anyone would hold them, not just to comfort them, but to understand. To really understand. To hold them the way they needed to be held when everything felt too heavy.

But no one does. They don’t. So they keep going. They keep pretending, keep sinking deeper into the silence. They keep swallowing the anger, keeping it locked inside like a secret they can’t share. Because that’s all they have left. Their pain, their anger, their loneliness. It’s the only thing they can control.

And yet, even that feels like it’s slipping away.