She weaved scraps of human interaction into friendships, hoped they would hold, and cried when those fickle threads broke. At the end of the day, she was the last one on the list and never thought about twice as she watched everyone live on without a whisper from her. So she unwove pieces of her from the scraps of others to maybe untether herself from all the bothers she thought she became. The quiet of strangers was more sought out than the gaze of faraway friends and fake, temporary lovers. In place of conversation, she lost herself in fictional worlds with characters who felt more like home than any house she had ever lived in. She stopped reaching out, inquiring, and refused to beg to be seen because at what point was there tugging on invisible strings?
No one would call or wonder why she was quiet, and no thought would be given to her avoidance of people she admired or her choice to step away from trying to be heard. They ripped her to shreds and then expected the world from her when she calmly exhaled her silent frustration over never fitting inside the box others made her. She saw more hope in the quiet of her four walls, where she scribbled her hopes and dreams between wallpaper lines and hidden in monstera vines. No one inside those four walls condemned her as strange because characters from books don’t know you exist.
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