I Don’t Talk Anymore

I used to talk. A lot. About my day. My dreams. My fears. My mistakes. I used to hope someone cared. But one day I stopped. Not all at once. Just slowly. Like turning off a light. One switch at a time. They nodded. But didn’t hear. They said “Cheer up.” As if I didn’t try. They said “You think too much.” As if I chose this. So I stayed quiet. Kept it inside. Smiled on time. Laughed just enough. So no one would worry. So no one would notice. And it worked. Too well. Now they think I’m fine. Because I never say otherwise. Because I don’t talk anymore. I write sometimes. Late at night. When the world is sleeping. When my thoughts get too loud. But I tear the pages. Throw them away. Like my voice. Because what’s the point if no one listens? I carry it. All of it. Like a bag with no bottom. Heavy. Invisible. And if I fall they’ll say “I never knew they were struggling.” But they did. They just ignored it. So now, I don’t talk. I breathe. I walk. And I wait for a voice that finally says: “I hear you.”