THE HIDDEN WAR
Passing Ghosts
You’ve seen them today.
Maybe you didn’t notice. Maybe you did, but you didn’t really see them. They might have been standing in line at the corner shop, fiddling with the zipper on their coat while they waited to pay. Maybe you passed them on the pavement, your eyes flicking up just long enough to acknowledge their presence before returning to the glow of your phone.
They could have been the person in the office kitchen, stirring sugar into a chipped mug while you made small talk about the weather. Or the neighbour you waved at without stopping as you lugged your shopping bags through the door.
You saw them. But you didn’t see them.
Right now, you can’t even remember their face.
It’s easy to think our days are made up of nothing but ordinary moments… background noise, filler between the things that actually matter. But for someone else, one of those moments might have been the closest thing they’ve had to a human connection all day.
They might be living in a war zone you will never see.
Not the kind with bombs and gunfire, but the kind that leaves them exhausted before they’ve even left the bed in the morning. A war waged entirely in silence, fought behind the armour of polite smiles and casual conversation.
We like to think we’d notice if someone was struggling. That if things were bad, there’d be obvious signs, right? A heaviness in their eyes, a crack in their voice, a certain slump in their posture. But that’s not how it works.
Pain doesn’t always leave marks you can see. Sometimes it hides so deep that even the person carrying it forgets it’s there… until it comes flooding back with the force of a tidal wave. And by then, it’s too late to escape it.
You might imagine depression as tears, silence, someone curled up under blankets in a darkened room. And yes, sometimes it’s that. But more often, it’s something else entirely. It’s the friend who makes you laugh until your ribs ache, then goes home and sits in silence. It’s the person who always seems busy, always has plans, because slowing down means they might have to feel.
Some people carry it like an open wound they protect with every step. Others hide it so well it’s invisible, it’s a second skin they’ve grown into over the years. You’d never guess it was there unless they chose to show you. And most of the time, they won’t.
They’ve been told to “keep it light.”
Because they’ve learned that when they speak the truth, people don’t know how to react.
Because they’ve convinced themselves that no one really wants to hear the answer to “How are you?”
So they keep that truth locked away. They give you the version of themselves the world finds easiest to deal with. They smooth over the cracks with smiles and small talk. They make you feel comfortable.
You believe it.
Not because you’re careless. Not because you don’t care. But because there’s nothing in their performance that tells you not to.
That’s how depression works. It lies to them, yes, it tells them no one would understand, that no one would care. But it lies to you as well. It convinces you there’s nothing wrong. That they’re strong, resilient, fine. That they’ll speak up if things get bad enough.
But sometimes, “bad enough” doesn’t come with a warning. Sometimes there is no moment when they cry out for help. Sometimes they just… stop.
You’re left piecing together every past interaction, wondering how many times you stood right next to them while they were quietly drowning.
You’ve seen them today.
But you didn’t really see them, you didn’t even come close to seeing them.
The Weight They Carry
The war doesn’t start with a bang.
There’s no sudden flash of panic that makes it obvious something’s wrong. It begins slowly, almost gently, like a shadow creeping into the room while the sun is setting.
At first, they can carry it. It’s just a little heaviness in the chest, a faint ache in the mind. They still laugh at the right moments. They still show up where they’re supposed to be. They still look like themselves. But that weight grows.
And the strange thing is, it doesn’t just grow heavier. It grows clever.
It learns how to spread itself so evenly across their life that it blends in with everything else. It’s not one big obvious lump on their back… It’s in the way they sigh when they think no one’s listening. It’s in the way they linger in the shower because it’s the only place they can cry without anyone hearing. It’s in the way they avoid mirrors, not because they hate what they see, but because they hate seeing themselves.
They’ve become fluent in the language of concealment. They can sit at a dinner table with friends, the conversation buzzing, plates clattering, laughter rolling around the room, and they can hide in plain sight. They nod. They smile. They take part. And no one notices that their mind is somewhere else entirely, far away in a place where the air is thin and the ground is cold.
Because here’s the thing no one tells you about depression…
It’s not always dramatic.
It’s not always the tear-streaked breakdown in the middle of the night.
Sometimes it’s mechanical.
Sometimes it’s just… existing.
Breathing because your body hasn’t figured out how to stop yet.
They go through the motions because stopping feels like it would draw too much attention. So they keep the mask on, day after day, until it stops feeling like a mask at all and starts feeling like who they are.
You see that version of them, the one they’ve practised, the one they’ve perfected, and you believe it. You think, they’re fine. They’re coping. Because you have no reason to think otherwise.
But what you don’t see is the private version. The version that sits in bed at 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, trying to calculate how much longer they can keep this up. The version that avoids certain songs because they’ll crack open a part of them they’ve buried just to get through the day. The version that sometimes looks at a room and wonders what it would feel like to leave it forever.
They don’t tell you this because they’ve learned the world isn’t built for those conversations. They’ve learned that “How are you?” is a greeting, not an actual question. They’ve learned that when they’ve tried to be honest before, people’s eyes flicker, their voices shift, and the subject changes.
So they smile. They say, “I’m fine.”
And you believe them.
That’s the cruellest part, not that they lie, but that the lie is easier for both of you to live with.
Suddenly one day, there’s no one left to lie to.
Drowning in Silence
You could be sitting right next to them.
In the same room.
Sharing the same air.
Hearing the same words in the same conversation.
You still wouldn’t know.
They’re experts at camouflage, better than a chameleon. They match their tone to the mood of the room. They keep the rhythm of the conversation just enough that no one thinks to look deeper. Every now and then, they’ll throw in a smile, a joke, a nod… little breadcrumbs of normality that convince you they’re fine.
But inside? Inside is different.
Inside, it’s like they’re standing on the ocean floor. The surface is there, above them, just out of reach, and no matter how hard they push, they can’t break through it. Their lungs burn, their muscles ache, but on the outside, they’re perfectly still. Because stillness is safer than the risk of letting someone see the panic.
They’ve been doing it for so long that they can read a room faster than anyone else. They know exactly how much eye contact to make. Exactly when to laugh. Exactly when to ask a question so no one turns one back on them. It’s not a conversation anymore, it’s survival.
You could be inches away from them and never hear the noise in their head. The relentless chatter of thoughts that tear them apart from the inside. The voice that tells them they’re a burden. That no one would notice if they vanished. That people might even be relieved.
It’s a voice that doesn’t scream… it whispers. Over and over. Until it sounds like the truth.
And that’s the danger.
Because when someone is screaming, you notice. You can act.
But when they’re silent?
When they’re holding it together just enough to look like they’re okay?
You don’t notice until they’re gone.
You’ll remember the night before. The casual goodbye. The laugh you didn’t think twice about. You’ll replay it in your head again and again, searching for the moment you should have known.
And you’ll hate yourself for not seeing it.
But the truth is, they didn’t want you to.
Not because they didn’t care about you, but because they didn’t believe you could save them.
Because by the time you were close enough to notice, they were already too far away.
And here’s the part that will keep you up at night…
You could be sitting next to someone right now who is slipping away.
And you wouldn’t know.
THE MASK WE WEAR
Building the Disguise
The mask is never built overnight.
It starts with something small.
A moment where they told the truth, and someone flinched. A time they answered honestly when asked how they were, and the air in the room shifted like they had just said something dangerous. Maybe it was the way a friend’s smile faltered before quickly changing the subject. Maybe it was a family member rolling their eyes and telling them to cheer up.
That was the first lesson. It wasn’t safe to be honest.
From that moment, the construction began.
At first, it was just a layer, a half-truth here, a forced smile there. A small laugh that didn’t quite reach the eyes. But the more they tried it, the easier it became.
They learned which expressions worked. Which phrases made people comfortable. Which parts of their truth could be sanded down until they no longer made anyone squirm.
Every interaction was another brick. Another coat of paint. Another little piece of armour hiding what lived underneath.
And the scary thing about the mask is how quickly it stops feeling like a disguise.
After a while, they can’t tell where it ends and they begin. It becomes the face they show to the world, the voice they use, the way they move through each day. They can be dying inside, yet still hold a conversation about weekend plans like they have something to look forward to.
On the outside, they seem functional. On the inside, the walls are closing in. The mask doesn’t just protect them from the world, it traps them in with their own thoughts. They can be in a crowded room, surrounded by people they know, and still feel like they’re locked in a glass box, watching life happen on the other side. They can see the movement, hear the voices, but none of it feels real.
The worst part is that everyone else is fooled. The mask is convincing, it’s doing its job. It’s charming. It’s reassuring.
It tells people exactly what they want to hear… “I’m fine. I’m good. Nothing’s wrong,” and people believe it, because believing otherwise would mean they’d have to look closer, listen harder, and risk hearing something they don’t know how to fix.
The truth is, the mask is not for their benefit. It’s for yours.
Because the raw, unfiltered version of their pain would scare you.
So they keep building it. Stronger. Heavier. Until it’s the only thing keeping them upright.
But there’s a cost.
Every time they add a layer, they lose a piece of themselves.
And one day, when they finally take it off, there might be nothing left underneath.
Breathing Behind Glass
Living behind the mask is like breathing through glass. You can see the world, you can hear it, you can even touch it, but it always feels like there is something between you and everything else. Conversations sound slightly muffled. Moments of joy feel like they belong to someone else. Life happens around you, not to you.
It is exhausting in ways most people will never understand. Every word has to be measured. Every expression rehearsed. Every reaction is calculated. Even the smallest moments take work. A simple chat in the corridor. A drink with friends. A family dinner. All of it becomes a performance, and performances take energy.
By the time they are alone again, they are drained. Not just tired, but emptied. It is the kind of exhaustion that seeps into the bones. The kind that makes even small decisions feel like moving mountains. Do they cook or just eat nothing? Do they shower or leave it for another day? Do they answer that message or pretend they never saw it?
The mask stays on for as long as there is an audience. Even at home, some people keep it in place for the benefit of those they live with. Smiling at the right time. Laughing in the right moments. Pretending to watch TV while their mind drifts to places they would never speak about out loud.
The strange thing is, it can be easier to keep the mask on than to take it off. After years of wearing it, the real face underneath starts to feel unfamiliar. Vulnerable. Weak. The idea of showing it becomes terrifying. Not because they do not want to be known, but because they are not sure anyone will like what they find there.
The longer they wear it, the heavier it becomes. It starts as armour, meant to protect them from rejection, from judgment, from the uncomfortable silence that comes when someone does not know how to respond. But armour has a weight, and they carry it everywhere.
Every laugh is another weight. Every “I’m fine” is another weight. Every moment they hide the truth adds to the load pressing down on them.
And when the lights are off and the doors are shut, that is when the cracks appear. That is when the smile fades and the eyes lose their focus. That is when the weight becomes unbearable, because there is no distraction left, no one left to perform for, nothing left to hold it together except the thin thread of habit.
Behind the mask, it is just them and the thoughts they have been trying to outrun.
And sometimes, that is the most dangerous place in the world.
When the Mask Becomes the Cage
At first, the mask feels like protection. It shields them from awkward questions and uncomfortable stares. It lets them move through the day without having to explain the parts of themselves that feel too raw to share. It is a barrier between their pain and the rest of the world.
But over time, the mask stops feeling like a choice. It is no longer something they put on. It is something they live inside. And once they are inside, it is hard to remember what it felt like to breathe without it.
They forget the sound of their own unfiltered voice. They forget what it feels like to cry in front of someone without apologising for it. They forget the weight of being truly seen, because the mask has been in place for so long that the person underneath has faded into the background.
And here is the cruel part. The mask does not just hide them from others. It hides them from themselves.
The person they used to be, the one who laughed without thinking about how it looked, the one who could talk about their feelings without rehearsing every word, starts to feel like a stranger. And the stranger feels weaker. Less capable. Less worthy of love.
So they retreat further behind the mask. They polish it. They strengthen it. They make sure it never slips in public. They convince themselves that if anyone were to see what is underneath, they would turn away.
It becomes safer to live inside the cage than to risk stepping out of it. Safer to pretend than to be real. Safer to be a version of themselves that the world accepts.
But safety is not the same as living.
Inside the mask, the world becomes smaller. Days blur into each other. Moments of joy feel distant, muted, as though they are watching them through a pane of glass. And all the while, something in them is slowly eroding.
The silence inside the cage grows louder. The thoughts they have been keeping at bay start pressing harder against the edges. Thoughts that whisper that this is it, that this is all there will ever be, that maybe the only real escape is a permanent one.
The mask was built to keep them safe.
Now it is leading them to the edge.
THE SKY KING
The Last Flight
On August 10th, 2018, a man named Richard Russell walked across the tarmac at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. He was 29 years old, working the kind of job most people pass by without a second thought. He loaded luggage, guided aircraft, and helped passengers get to where they were going.
That day, he climbed into an empty Horizon Air turboprop. He started the engines, rolled onto the runway, and took off without clearance. There was no flight plan and no instructor in the seat beside him. Just the roar of the propellers, the open sky above, and the quiet decision that he would not be coming back down alive.
For more than an hour, he stayed in the air. The world listened as his voice came through the radio. He was calm, steady, and almost conversational. He joked with air traffic control. He talked about learning to fly from video games. He apologised to the people who loved him. He admired the view and called it beautiful.
Then, without drama or hesitation, he told them he was not planning to land.
There was no rage in his voice. No panic. No sign of struggle. It sounded like a man taking a scenic route on a summer afternoon, even as he steered toward the end of his life.
When the plane went down, the story spread across the news. People who had never met him felt the weight of it, drawn in by the humanity in his final words. Friends and co-workers spoke of his kindness, his humour, and his ability to make people feel comfortable. Social media filled with messages of sorrow from strangers who had been moved by the conversation they heard that day.
If only he had known how many people felt that way while he was still here.
That is the tragedy within the tragedy. The connection, the care, the grief, all of it was real. Yet it only surfaced when there was no way for it to reach him.
Richard Russell was not famous. He was not a name most people knew until the day he died. He was an ordinary man living an ordinary life who, in his final hour, revealed a depth that most never realised was there.
And then he was gone.
The Love We Show Too Late
When Richard Russell’s final conversation was broadcast, it caught the world off guard. People who had never met him felt something shift as they listened. His words were calm, almost gentle, and yet they carried a finality that could not be ignored. In the days after, tributes poured in from strangers, colleagues, and friends. They spoke of his humour, his kindness, the ease with which he made others feel at home.
But none of it reached him when it could have mattered.
That is the part that lingers. We speak differently about people once they are gone. The affection comes out more freely. The praise is louder. The memories surface without hesitation. Yet so often, we save those words for a eulogy instead of a conversation.
If Richard had heard that flood of compassion in his lifetime, it may not have erased his pain. But it would have been real. It would have been his to carry in the moments when the weight felt too much.
There are people in your life now who will never trend on social media. They will never have a final broadcast. Their absence will not make the news. But if they were gone tomorrow, you would feel it like a hollow in your chest.
And the truth is, you may not know how close they are to disappearing.
That is not meant to scare you. It is meant to remind you that silence is not always safety. Someone can look steady on the outside while quietly coming undone.
Richard’s story matters because it shows how easily connection can come too late. Someone you know might need to hear what you would only say at their funeral. Say it now.
It hit me hard when I first heard about him. I remember watching videos on YouTube, hearing his voice in that final hour, and feeling a strange mix of sadness and respect. He was not an evil man and he made it clear he did not want to hurt anyone. He just wanted to be seen, to live one last adventure, and to test himself in a way no one had before.
At one point, he said he wanted to try a barrel roll, something that had never been done in that kind of plane. The pilots and air traffic controllers on the radio were surprised, even a little taken aback, yet you could hear the faint smile in their voices when they realised he actually pulled it off. He laughed. They laughed with him. For a brief moment, there was nothing but shared humanity in the airwaves.
He spoke about how beautiful the view was. He apologised for the trouble he was causing. He joked about having a few screws loose but quickly followed it with warmth and politeness. Even in his final hour, he treated the people speaking to him with kindness.
That was the part that stayed with me. He did not sound like someone running from the law or chasing chaos. He sounded like someone trying to squeeze one last taste of life before it slipped away completely.
THE PEOPLE WE COULDN’T SAVE
The Ones You Think Are Untouchable
We all like to believe we would notice. That if someone we cared about was slipping away, there would be signs. Maybe they would seem quieter, or cancel plans, or let a little sadness show in their voice. We tell ourselves that we would see it, we would say something, and we would stop it before it was too late.
But the truth is, some of the most devastating losses in recent history came from people who seemed unshakable.
Robin Williams made millions of people laugh until their sides hurt, yet he carried a weight that laughter could never lift. Anthony Bourdain travelled the world, shared meals with strangers and kings alike, and still found himself staring into a darkness that refused to leave. Chester Bennington screamed our pain into the microphone, giving words to feelings so many of us could not name, and then quietly ran out of words for himself. Caroline Flack seemed to light up every room she walked into, but no amount of cameras or spotlights could chase away the shadows.
And those are only the names we know.
Behind every headline, there are thousands more stories we never hear. People who will never trend online, whose absence will not make the news. They are the friends who always check in on others. The colleague who never missed a deadline. The family member who cracked jokes at every gathering. The ones you think are untouchable because they never let you see the cracks.
Sometimes it is the strongest-seeming people who are fighting the hardest battles. And when they go, it leaves a silence that feels wrong in the places they used to fill.
I have lost people who I thought were fine. People who smiled with me one week and were gone the next. You replay the last conversation over and over, trying to find the clue you missed, but it never feels obvious until it is too late. You sit with that guilt, that ache in your chest, and you wonder if one message or one call could have made the difference.
Maybe it would not have. But maybe it would have.
And that uncertainty stays with you.
You carry it. You carry them. And every time you see someone laughing and saying they are fine, a small part of you wonders if it is the truth, or if they are slowly slipping beyond your reach.
Closer Than You Think
It is easy to look at the names in the news and think these tragedies live somewhere far away, in another world, in another kind of life. But the truth is, they live much closer than you think.
Right now, there is someone in your life who feels like they are fading. You probably would not guess it. They might be the one who texts you memes in the middle of the night. The one who always turns up for birthdays. The one who makes everyone else laugh when things get awkward. They could be the last person you would imagine sitting in the quiet at 3 a.m., wondering if they can face another day.
And I know this because I have been that person.
I have fought depression myself, and it is not an easy fight. I have written openly about it on my blog, because hiding it almost destroyed me. I know what it feels like to smile in public and collapse inside the moment the door closes behind you. I know how heavy it gets when you convince yourself no one would understand. I know the way it whispers that you are too much for people to care about, and how quickly you start believing it.
Depression is a liar, and it is relentless. It convinces you that the people in your life would be better off without you. It blinds you to the ones who would miss you every single day. It can take a room full of people who care about you and make it feel like an empty, silent space.
That is why I am telling you this. Because I have seen it from both sides. I have been the one who almost slipped away, and I have been the one left behind wondering why I did not see it coming. And the truth is, when someone is gone, all the things you wish you had said will sit in your chest like stones.
I have opened up to people before. I have poured my heart out, even if it was just a little, and yes, it was hard. It felt awkward. It felt like my words were hanging in the air, waiting for someone to grab hold of them, and sometimes it felt like no one did. There were moments I walked away still feeling unheard, like I was talking through glass. There were times I still felt left behind or forgotten about. And that feeling is dangerous, because it whispers that maybe no one cares after all.
But here is the truth I have learned… opening up helps. It is not a magic cure, but it is a crack in the walls you build around yourself. And when you do let someone in, even just a little, the ones who care will prove they are there for you. They might not fix everything, they might not have the perfect words, but they will help you understand that you are not completely alone in the world.
Maybe you think your friends are fine. Maybe they are. But what if they are not?
We wait for people to open up. We tell ourselves we will ask the hard questions when the time is right. We think there will be a sign, a moment, something that tells us now is the time. But sometimes that moment never comes. Sometimes, the first time you hear of their struggle is when you hear they are gone.
If you knew that was going to happen to someone you love, what would you say to them right now?
Whatever those words are, say them.
Do not save them for a funeral.
THE OUTPOURING AFTER
Words for the Dead
When someone dies, the world speaks differently about them.
The tone changes. The words come more freely. The stories pour out, as if there is no longer a reason to keep them in.
Suddenly, the timeline fills with their face. A flood of old photos, shaky videos, memories written down in captions. People share moments they never told them in life. They talk about how much they were loved, how much they will be missed, and how they will never forget them.
It is a beautiful thing.
And it is a cruel thing.
Because none of it reaches the person it is meant for.
There are no notifications for the dead. No way for them to hear the words we kept inside. No chance for them to know how deeply they mattered to so many people.
If you have ever read those posts, you know how moving they are. The heartfelt messages. The laughter in old pictures. The inside jokes are explained for strangers to understand. And somewhere in the middle of it all, a painful thought creeps in… why did we not say it when they could still hear it?
I have seen it happen. I have felt it happen. That ache in the chest when you realise the words you are reading are exactly what the person needed to hear while they were still breathing. The kind of words that could have made them pause. The kind of words that could have been an anchor on a day when they were drifting too far out.
But we saved them. We saved them for the moment when they could no longer be reached.
And it makes you wonder… who in your life needs to hear those words now, while there is still time?
When It’s Too Late to Answer
The first thing you notice is their face.
Not in person, not in the way you’re used to, but on a screen. Smiling from a photo that suddenly feels heavier than it did before. It is the kind of picture you have scrolled past a hundred times without thinking, but now it is everywhere.
Underneath are words you never wanted to read. “Rest in peace.” “Gone too soon.” “It doesn’t feel real.”
You start seeing them everywhere… not the person, but pieces of them. A memory someone else posted. A voice note that plays differently now. A laugh caught in the background of an old video.
Your feed becomes a memorial. Friends share the same images over and over, as if repeating them could keep the person alive for just a little longer. There are long posts from people you never knew they were close to, each one filled with warmth and regret. Stories come out about the little things they did for others. Times they helped without being asked. Moments they made someone feel seen.
And the whole time, one thought keeps clawing at you.
They never got to hear this.
You picture them reading those words. You imagine their phone lighting up with every notification. You think about whether it would have made a difference, whether knowing all of this would have changed the way they saw themselves.
The reality is, you will never know.
What you do know is that their chair is empty now. Their name will never pop up on your phone again. That laugh you took for granted will never be heard in the same room as you.
You are left holding all the words you never said, and now there is no one to say them to.
And the silence after is louder than anything you have ever heard.
THE UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH
We tell ourselves we will have time.
Time to ask how they are. Time to tell them what they mean to us. Time to notice when something feels off. We believe that the people we care about will always be here tomorrow, because the thought of them not being here is something we refuse to let ourselves consider.
But one day, tomorrow does not come.
When that happens, there are no second chances. There is no way to rewind the clock and make that call you kept putting off. There is no way to send the message you thought about but never typed. There is no way to give them the hug you were planning to save for next time.
You can stand at their funeral and pour your heart out, but you will be speaking to a body that can no longer hear you. You can write the most beautiful words, but they will be carved into stone instead of living in their memory. You can tell everyone else how much they mattered, but it will always come with the sting of knowing you never told them enough when it counted.
This is the uncomfortable truth, the only time you can be sure someone will hear your words is when they are still alive to listen.
And here is something even harder to admit.
You may think they know. You may believe your love is obvious, that your care is understood without needing to be spoken. But people in pain do not always feel what you think they do. Depression distorts reality. It convinces them they are a burden, that they are unloved, that their absence would not leave a hole in your life.
That is why you have to say it.
Out loud. Directly. Without waiting for the perfect moment.
Because one day, you will run out of days.
Before the Silence
One day you will hear their name, and it will not be in their voice.
It will arrive blunt and heavy. A message. A call. A sentence that knocks the air out of your chest and leaves the room strangely bright and far away. The world will not rewind. It never does.
Your mind will claw at the last time you saw them. The way they smiled. The way you let it pass. You will search for a crack and find none. You will check your phone and see the unsent message sitting there like a stone. You will hear yourself whisper that there would have been time. There will not have been.
Photos will spill across your feed. Stories will bloom in long captions. People will line up to tell the truth they never spoke out loud. Kindnesses. Small rescues. Quiet brilliance. You will read it all with a sickness that will not fade, because none of it will ever reach them. They will never know.
Then the practical things will start to haunt you. A chair that stays empty. A toothbrush that dries and stays dry. A hoodie that keeps the shape of their shoulders and never warms again. The tea they used to make that no one gets quite right. The silence that sits down beside you and does not leave.
You will wish for one more ordinary minute. Not a speech. Not a miracle. Just a minute to look them in the eyes and ask the only question that matters, and to wait for the real answer. You will promise the walls that if you could have that minute, you would not look away.
You cannot buy that minute back.
So do it now. Call. Text. Knock. Sit on the floor with them if that is where they are. Ask if they are really okay and stay until you have the truth. Smile if they need light. Listen if they need quiet. Hug them. Hold on longer than feels normal. Let your arms say what your mouth cannot. Sometimes, a conversation or a nod at the door or one stubborn hug is enough to pull a foot off the edge.
Make them know their life is seen. Make them know it matters. Be the noise that breaks the hush that would swallow them whole.
Because if you wait, you will stand in the aftermath with your hands empty and your throat full of words that will never be heard. You will learn how heavy a name can be when it belongs to a memory.
Do it now. Before the silence takes them.
THEPLAINANDSIMPLEGUY
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- The SantaBlog Series, Day 23. (On the Edge of Christmas)
- The SantaBlog Series, Day 22. (How Christmas Travels With Us)
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