In a land far removed from warmth and noise,
there lived a girl with a hollow in her chest —
a gaping void where a heart was supposed to be.
She didn't feel much of anything.
Not sadness, not joy.
Not love. Not hate.
Just… silence.
And the weight of pretending.
No one knew about the emptiness inside her.
To them, she was strong —
unshakable, untouchable.
They praised her resilience,
admired her silence,
mistaking her numbness for grace.
But the hole began to ache.
Every day, it grew heavier,
like grief with no name.
She didn't recognize the pain.
It was foreign —
and terrifying.
Still, she smiled.
Still, she played the part.
She walked through life like a statue with skin,
convincing everyone, even herself,
that she was fine.
But the ache became a scream.
And one day, it was too loud to silence.
She ran — as if running could save her.
Her feet carried her to the edge of a lake,
still and cold, like the way she felt inside.
She looked down.
The reflection stared back —
same eyes, same face,
but there was something different this time.
Something was dripping down her cheeks.
She touched it.
Warm.
Wet.
Salty.
Tears.
She didn't know how they got there.
She didn't remember learning how to cry.
And worse — she knew that if anyone saw her like this,
they'd look away.
People don't like when the strong suddenly crumble.
The thought of sinking felt peaceful.
Quiet.
Like rest.
So she stepped in.
She let the cold swallow her,
the silence take her back.
They found her the next day,
and the whispers began.
Some offered hollow sympathy,
filling the air with "if only"s and rehearsed regret.
The brave ones cursed her,
called her selfish.
But no one — not a single one —
ever stopped to wonder
how long she had been drowning
while standing right in front of them.
If only they had seen through the perfect image.
If only they had looked just once beneath the smile.
Maybe then…
she would've stayed.