It dies jot scream.
It does not beg.

It sits-
in the corner of a room
where no one looks,
folded into the seam
between memory and breath.

It walks with you
without footsteps.
It watches,
but never meets your eyes.

There is no wound to show,
no story to tell.
Only a weight
that has forgotten
how to lift itself.

You laugh,
and it listens.
You sleep,
and it waits.
You speak,
and it stays
just behind the silence
after your words.

Not an enemy,
not a friend.
Only a presence
that cannot be named
without waking it.