She learned very early that silence was safer than words.
In her house, voices didn't solve problems. They created new wounds.
So she stopped explaining.
She stopped crying where people could see.
And slowly, she stopped asking for help—
because help never came the way it should.
She found another way to survive.
She spent her days staring at a screen, scrolling endlessly.
Not because she loved the phone,
but because it helped her forget where she was.
The phone became a place where pain could not reach her.
Where memories were quieter.
Where emotions could be paused.
When problems came, she didn't fight them.
She didn't understand them either.
She ran.
Not because she was weak,
but because facing things
had never made them safer.
At night, when the world finally slept,
her thoughts became loud.
She wished for death.
Or for freedom.
Or for a place so far away
that no one could find her.
She imagined a quiet place—
a water fountain,
trees standing still,
no shouting,
no blame,
no raised hands.
In that place,
she wouldn't have to explain herself.
She would just breathe.