Even This Deserves a Voice
It’s not loud.
Not dramatic.
It’s just that moment when you’re saying something and they look away.
Or change the subject.
Or act like you’re taking too long.
And you notice.
Even if you pretend not to.
You feel yourself pull back.
You don’t mean to.
It just happens.
A small part of you shuts the door a little.
Because something in you whispers,
“Not again.”
You were just trying to talk.
Just trying to connect.
Not even about anything deep.
You just wanted to feel like someone was there.
With you.
For a second.
But they weren’t.
Not really.
So now you’re sitting there, wondering why you feel this ache
over something that looked so small on the outside.
And you tell yourself:
Stop being so sensitive.
Don’t expect so much.
Just stop talking so much next time.
But then—next time comes.
And you still do it.
You still try.
Still hope they’ll listen.
That they’ll notice you’re hurting, or tired, or just need someone to say,
“I get it. I’m here.”
But they don’t.
Not the way you wish they would.
And it’s not like they don’t care.
You know they do.
Just… not like that.
Not in the way you need.
So then what do you do with that?
You can’t be mad.
They’re not bad people.
They’re just caught up in their own stuff.
Like everyone is.
And maybe you are too much sometimes.
Maybe you do talk too long.
Maybe you do want more than most people know how to give.
But it still hurts.
And you’re tired of pretending it doesn’t.
You wish you could stop needing.
Wish you could stop hoping someone will finally get it.
But even now—some part of you still does.
Still wants someone to meet you in the middle.
To look you in the eye and not look away.
You’re not bitter.
You’re not angry.
You’re just tired.
And maybe grieving something you never fully had.
A kind of being seen that never quite came.
And you’re trying to tell yourself it’s okay.
That you can hold space for your own ache,
Even when no one else does.
But some nights, it still gets heavy.
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