"Silence is always beautiful, and a silent person is always more beautiful than one who talks."
- Dostoevsky, The Adolescent
He watched the world from a corner of the room, where shadows whispered secrets no one else could hear. The evening light, soft as a forgotten promise, streamed through the window and brushed his face. He was a ghost in his own house, drifting unnoticed, his thoughts like fragile paper boats floating on a river of memories.
In the silence, he found refuge. Words were sharp, unpredictable things, cutting deeper than he could bear. So, he held them within, letting them gather like dust on an abandoned shelf. The others laughed and spoke with wild, careless abandon, their voices filling the space with noise that felt heavy, oppressive. But he remained still, the quiet carving out a sanctuary around him, the solitude embracing him with an aching tenderness.
It was in that silence he discovered the truth: some things were too sacred to be spoken aloud. And in the depths of that unbr… 2 replies
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