Unmarked Breath

30/03/2026

02/02/2026

Everyone said I was lucky.
A roof. Food. Clean clothes.

No one asked why I stopped speaking.
Why I flinched at kindness.
Why silence felt safer than help.

Pain doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes it learns how to disappear
so it won’t be punished again.

31/01/2026

My father paid for everything.
Except his time.

He knew my shoe size.
Not my fears.

Every birthday came with gifts wrapped perfectly.
No hugs. No questions.

At night, I listened to his car pull into the driveway…
and waited.

Sometimes love isn’t missing.
It’s just never present.

31/01/2026

She was the one person I trusted
to protect me.

She smiled when others were watching.
And whispered threats when they weren’t.

I learned early that betrayal doesn’t always come from enemies.
Sometimes it tucks you in at night
and calls itself family.

The scars you don’t see
are the ones that stay forever.

30/01/2026

I learned early that silence keeps you safe.

At school, I smiled when teachers passed by.
At home, I stayed invisible.

My lunchbox was always full,
but somehow… I was always hungry.

Not for food.
For someone to notice.

People assume quiet children are easy children.
They never ask why we stopped speaking.

Some wounds don’t bleed.
They just grow.

28/01/2026

The Grave That Didn’t Hold My Children

My name is Daniel Roth, and I went to the cemetery to speak to my sons—not to be interrupted by the truth.

The grave is in a quiet corner of Cologne, shaded by old trees that never seem to move. I know every crack in the stone. I trace the letters when I can’t remember the sound of their laughter.

My wife couldn’t come that day. She hasn’t been able to stand there since the funeral. I told her I’d go alone. I told myself I needed the silence.

That’s when a child spoke.

“Sir… they’re not here.”

I turned, irritated at first. Grief makes you protective of rituals. A girl stood nearby—thin jacket, muddy shoes, eyes too calm to be guessing.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your twins,” she said. “They’re not here.”

I felt the ground tilt. I laughed once, because disbelief needs an outlet.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t ask for anything. She just added, “I know their names.”

Names aren’t rumors. Names are learned.

I knelt back down, hand still on the stone, and realized something terrifying:

I had accepted an ending because I didn’t think there was another option.

PART 2 IN COMMENT 👇👇👇