The Cry That Never Comes

I don’t know why my heart feels this heavy. It’s like I’m carrying something I can’t name, something no words were ever made for. It hurts — not like a wound you can point to, but like a silence that has lived inside me for far too long. I wish I could cry. Not just tears— but everything. The memories, the disappointments, the moments I swallowed pain because I didn’t know how to speak it. I want to cry until my chest loosens, until my breath feels real, until my heart stops shaking behind the ribs that cage it. I want to cry until my past finally lets me go, until every hurt I never admitted softens and falls away. But I can’t. Not a single tear will come. My body remembers how to endure better than it remembers how to release. So I just sit there— quiet, motionless, feeling everything and nothing at the same time. And I wonder— What did life do to me? Where did my softness go? What moment taught my heart that it’s safer to be silent than to be seen? I don’t have the answer. I only have the weight. And the ache. And the quiet hope that someday… my heart will remember how to let go.