the quiet test 

if you knew me—
truly knew me,
not just the name i answer to
or the laugh i lend in crowded rooms—
you’d hear it.

the storm beneath the stillness.
the scream folded inside the silence.
the quiet twitch behind the practiced smile.

people think knowing is hearing what’s said.
but you—
you would’ve read the pauses.
translated the weight in my sighs.
measured the tremble
hidden in the way i said
“i’m fine.”

because knowing me
has always been less about listening
and more about noticing
when i stop speaking.

you would have known
when my chest swelled
not from pride,
but from pressure.
that kind of pressure
right before a dam breaks—
the ache before an unspoken truth
demands to be heard.

you would have seen
when my joy wasn’t just joy
but something more—
a rare light
trying to prove to itself
that it still existed.

you would have known
when i wasn't okay,
even when i mastered the choreography
of seeming okay.

because knowing me
was never about the obvious.
it was about catching the moments
when my spirit leaked
through the seams
of who i pretended to be.

but maybe—
maybe this was the trap:
expecting you to feel
what i couldn't say.
expecting recognition
without revelation.

and still—
i held on to the belief
that someone
who truly knew me
would see past
what i allowed the world to see.

and maybe that’s the cruelest part of all:
to realize
you thought someone was fluent
in your silence—
but they only knew
your noise.