At first, I mistook the quiet for a threat.

It sounded too much like the breath before a scream,

the stillness that always came before a slammed door,

the pause in your voice

before the next accusation.

I flinched at nothing.

Checked the locks twice.

Listened for the footsteps that weren’t coming.

The quiet didn’t comfort me—

it warned me.

It echoed like guilt,

like maybe I’d forgotten something,

like maybe this wasn’t over.

But then it stayed.

Day after day,

hour by hour,

it just kept being there.

No chaos.

No eggshells.

No voice shaking the walls.

And slowly—

almost so slow I didn’t notice—

it started to sound like peace.

Not joy.

Not relief.

Just absence.

A kind of clean space where fear used to live.

I stopped apologizing to the walls.

Stopped talking to shadows.

Stopped expecting the crash.

The quiet didn’t ask anything from me.

Didn’t twist.

Didn’t turn.

It just existed.

Like it always had—

like I just hadn’t heard it in years.

And one morning,

without even meaning to,

I let my shoulders drop.

I looked around the room

and realized I was no longer waiting

for something to break.

That was the first time

I called silence by its real name.

Home.

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The First Morning I Didn’t Cry