but the soft, invisible kind

that close around a thought

before it can form a sound.

It starts with a pause at the edge of speech,

a word you almost say,

then swallow.

The quiet thickens, attentive,

like something crouching just beyond the lamp.

In that hush, every heartbeat

sounds like footsteps in the attic.

You begin counting them,

to prove they are yours

and not someone pacing overhead.

The walls forget how to echo you.

Your reflection moves a fraction late,

lips shaping the sentence

you were too cautious to release.

You watch it finish speaking

in the glass.

The silence is patient.

It files itself on your nerves,

gnaws the corners of memory

you have pushed behind furniture,

drags them into the open

one creak at a time.

Soon, you can hear it breathing

between your heartbeats,

a cold inhale under every exhale,

as if the room is tasting

what you are trying not to feel.

You press your hands over your ears,

but it only sharpens the sound

inside your skull:

your own voice, rearranged, whispering the things

you hoped no one would ever say aloud.

By the time the lights go out,

you understand.

There is no empty room,

no lurking stranger.

Only the quiet you fed for years

with unsaid apologies, unfinished fears,

now smiling in the dark,

closing its careful jaws

around what is left of you.

Written by @elasticjuly

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