Whispering words

She didn’t rise.

The world didn’t ask her to.

It spun anyway—

cruelly consistent in its orbit,

while she curled tighter into herself,

wishing for stillness.

The weight of expectation?

Too loud.

The noise of blame?

Too sharp.

So she stayed low—

knees drawn, chest tight—

the kind of small that even shadows

hesitate to disturb.

But beside her,

no demand echoed.

No call to be brave.

Just silence…

and the press of warmth.

A palm—open, steady—

not lifting her,

but anchoring her.

As if to say:

“You’re not a failure for pausing.”

“You’re not broken for breaking.”

“You don’t have to rise alone.”

And beneath the ache,

something flickered.

Not courage. Not yet.

Just breath.

And the reminder—

that she was still here.

Still real.

Still worthy of being held.