Hear my cry: part 1

Hear My Cry I never screamed when it hurt. My tears felt heavier than words, heavier than screams could ever be. If you want to know my pain, ask my tears—they can speak louder than my words ever could. I learned early that loud pain makes people uncomfortable. So I swallowed my words, folded my feelings neatly, and carried them like books no one wanted to read. In classrooms, I was told to adjust. In friendships, I was told to stay quiet. When I spoke, I was annoying. When I stayed silent, I was distant. There was no version of me that felt right for the world I stood in. I watched others laugh easily, speak freely, make mistakes without fear. I learned instead how to apologize—even when I had done nothing wrong. I learned how to smile while shrinking. I learned how to survive. Before writing found me, there was someone who listened. She was my senior, yet she felt closer than most—first a friend through my sister, then slowly my own. We spoke for hours about friendships we had lost and the silent weight they carried. In her words, I found understanding and care I had never felt elsewhere. Two pasts met in school corridors, learning—gently—how to repair. to be continued...