It feels like falling inward,
not with sound,
but with silence so heavy
it presses against your ribs.

You wake up
and something is missing.
You try to speak,
but the words won't rise.
They sit,heavy and wet,
in the hollow of your chest.

Your hands shake,
not from fear,
but from remembering
how it felt to hold yourself together.
And knowing
you can't anymore.

People ask,
are you okay?
You nod,
because explaining would mean
unraveling
in front of them.

You don't know when it started,
the quiet collapse,
the slow undoing
of everything you thought was certain.
But now,
even your shadow looks unfamiliar.

Still,
somewhere beneath the wreckage,
you are breathing.
Even if it's shallow,
even if it hurts.

That,too,
is a beginning.