I didn’t cry loudly. Loud crying asks to be rescued. Mine was quiet. The kind that doesn’t want to bother anyone. An old, collected cry made of small absences: the visit that never happened, the call that never came, the promise left floating in the air.Still, I sat there.
Because as strange as it sounds, I didn’t want my birthday to end without someone witnessing that I exist. Even if that “someone” was only the candle flame, insisting on staying lit.So let me ask you—honestly, with the clarity that comes when you’re too tired to pretend: how many people today are celebrating something in silence?
How many are waiting for one simple gesture so they don’t give up inside? How many look strong on the outside only so they won’t be a burden?Maybe life doesn’t ask for grand speeches. Maybe it asks for presence. For remembering. For humanity.
