Yard Girl

There is a version of adulthood nobody really prepares you for. The quiet version. Not the sitting-in-dark-rooms-crying-into-pillows kind. I mean the kind where silence slowly starts to feel more comfortable than conversation. Where being alone does not necessarily mean you are sad. Sometimes, it just means you are tired. Tired of responding. Tired of explaining. Tired of carrying your thoughts from one conversation to another. And the strange thing is, people rarely understand this. The moment you become quieter, people assume something must be wrong. “ Are you okay? ” “ You’ve been distant. ” “ You don’t talk to us anymore. ” And maybe they are not entirely wrong. But maybe adulthood simply does this to people. Because as you grow older, your mind becomes crowded in ways that are difficult to explain. There is always something sitting at the front of your thoughts. Work. Money. Fear. The future. Your family. The version of yourself you are still trying to become. And after carrying a...

  There is a specific kind of silence that fills a room before someone breaks your heart. Sometimes, it is not even a room. Sometimes, it is a phone call. And somehow, that feels worse. Because all you have is their breathing. Their pauses. The terrifying softness in their voice. Then they sigh. And your body knows before your mind catches up. Your throat tightens first. Then your chest. Then your thoughts begin scrambling for kinder explanations. Maybe that’s not what they mean. Maybe they’re overwhelmed. Maybe in the next five seconds, they’ll laugh and say, “I’m joking.” Even though you already know that kind of joke is expensive. Still, a part of you waits for it anyway. And then: “I want you to be happy.” As if happiness has ever survived a sentence like that. Because surely this cannot be happening. Not now. Not after you let them into your world so completely that even ordinary things began to feel softer with them inside it. Music sounded fuller. Colours looked more alive. ...