She came closer.

Too close to ignore.
Too close to escape.

Her mouth moved fast, sharp, restless—
like birds startled into flight,
wings beating the air without direction.

I tried to follow her lips.

They wouldn’t slow.

Her face was tight with something that burned,
and I didn’t know why.

I still had my headphones on.

She reached for them suddenly—
not gently, not asking.

Her fingers hooked around the band
and pulled them from my head in one sharp motion.

She threw them to the ground.

They hit the pavement and slid away from my feet.

I didn’t flinch.

It didn’t change anything.

What she was saying then—
I caught fragments only.

Not full sentences.

Shapes of meaning.

What is wrong with you
How could you

I stood there,
watching her mouth form judgments faster
than I could collect them.

There is a sad truth about this world:

It does not pause to ask who you are.
It does not care what you carry.

You are only another grain of sand
in an ocean that keeps moving—
with you,
or without you.

I wanted to tell her
this wasn’t my fault.

Not with anger.
Not with defense.

Just truth.

I wasn’t angry.

I never am.

This is simply how the world is—
and how I am in it.

My face changed before I could stop it.

My chest tightened.

I wanted to speak.

Not loudly.
Not perfectly.

Just once.

To let something leave me.

My mouth opened.

Nothing came.

How could it?

I don’t even know anymore
if my voice is truly gone,
or if I simply cannot hear it
to know it still exists.

Maybe sound leaves you
before you realize it has.

I wondered, for a cruel second,
if she heard anything from me at all—
or if my mouth only made
broken, useless shapes.

I remember a television show from childhood,
from a time when sound still reached me.

They said people who couldn’t speak
sometimes made strange noises.

I don’t know if that’s true.

I can’t tell now.

I can’t hear the difference.

But in this moment—
this unbearable moment—
I wished she could hear me.

I tried to explain.

I really did.

My hands moved without order,
without language,
without grace.

I pointed.

I shook my head.

I shaped meaning desperately,
hoping something would land.

I didn’t know
if she was hearing,
or seeing,
or understanding
anything at all.

I knew how I must look.

Pathetic.

Isn’t that what people expect?

There were moments in my life—
long ago—
when I tried to disappear completely.

To stop explaining.
To stop existing.

But this—
this wasn’t one of them.

This wasn’t my fault.

None of it was.

I didn’t choose silence.
I didn’t choose this body.

Nobody does.

I realized then
how hard I was breathing.

My chest rose and fell sharply,
as if it were trying to say something on its own.

I looked at her.

Her face was changing.

Not anger now.

Something else.

Her eyes widened.

Her mouth stopped.

The world slowed.

She dropped her head,
one hand pressed against her stomach,
the other covering her mouth
as if she were trying to hold something inside.

Tears came suddenly.

Not carefully.

Not quietly.

They fell without permission.

That was when I understood.

She hadn’t known.

Not really.

Not until now.

It wasn’t her fault.

People judge quickly.
Not because they are cruel,
but because the world trains them to move on
before understanding can catch up.

Stopping takes time.
Looking again takes courage.

To be continued…

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