Some experiences do not leave.
They go quiet.
It settles into the chest, a tightness you can’t stretch away.
It crawls up the back of your neck, a dull ache that lingers through the day.
It twists your stomach before you even speak.
Sometimes it’s a moment you swallowed because it was too much.
A want you pressed down so deep you forgot what it was.
A truth you held between your teeth, afraid to let it slip.
Nothing happens.
The conversation moves on.
The room stays calm.
But something in you doesn’t.
So, the body learns to speak first.
In restless legs that won’t let you sleep.
In a jaw clenched tight on words you never said.
In a heart that races, sure of danger, even when the room is quiet.
The ache stays.
Not loud.
Not visible.
Just present.
Carried in ways you don’t always notice
until something small brings it back.
A pause.
A look.
A silence that lasts a second too long.
And suddenly, it’s there again.
Not new.
Just not finished.