Entry #3 Echoes in the Room

Sometimes, I try to share a piece of myself. Not loudly, not demanding, just offering.

But the moment I do, it drifts. Like my words become a bridge to somewhere else; somewhere that has nothing to do with what I meant.

And I’m left wondering if I spoke at all. Or if I only imagined the echo.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from being quiet. It comes from speaking, and not being met.

Still, I whisper. Still, I write. Because somewhere in this space, I want to believe my voice can still land gently.

Even if only with myself.