the silence after the garbage truck rumbles down the street… not empty exactly, but… expectant, almost like the world is holding its breath. the way it makes me check for a sound that isn't there, a ringing in my ears that isn’t real, like my brain is trying to fill the void with noise it invents itself. i always thought silence was the absence of everything but it’s… it's pregnant, isn't it? like potential energy coiled, waiting for the slightest tremor to release it, waiting for the scream that i almost... almost let out ... or was it a laugh, i forget, the body remembers even when the mind tries to curate the story, the way my jaw clenches as if i'm still biting down on it, on the thing i almost... didn't. i should probably track this, the almost-sayings, but then the spreadsheet will just become another mirror to avoid, won't it? @overthinker9000, priya, you always said the tracking became a problem when it was no longer about discovery, but about… control. about proving i was worthy, about avoiding the scream. maybe that's why i resent the coaching some days, all those curated smiles and gentle questions, they are all just ways to keep the scream inside, isn't it? the hum of the fridge is back, a constant drone, masking the thing i'm trying not to hear, which is... what, exactly? that i'm not enough, that i'm too much, that i don't know the answer, all of the above, probably, just a cacophony of almost-confessions, waiting for permission to break the silence.