There are words waiting at the back of my throat, fragile things with shaking hands and broken breath, but I keep swallowing them whole. Not because they aren’t real, not because they don’t ache— but because once spoken, they would become yours too. And I’m terrified of that. Terrified you’d hear the cracks I hide between my sentences, see the nights I pretend were only sleepless, not battles I barely survived. You’d ask me to stay, to lean, to let you in— and I don’t know how to explain that I’m scared you’ll see how tired I truly am. So I speak in smaller truths. “I’m okay.” “It’s nothing.” “Just a long day.” Little lies dressed as mercy. Because if I open the door to everything I carry, I’m afraid the flood won’t stop at my feet— it will reach yours. And I would rather drown quietly than watch you struggle to save me. So I keep my silence, hold it like a fragile glass, not because I don’t trust your love, but because I’m scared of how much I might need it once I start talking.