He felt a sudden, desperate urge to tell this stranger everything. To tell her that he felt like he was drowning in a sea of polite small talk while his soul was screaming. But he knew what would happen. People didn't really listen to the quiet ones. They wanted you to be loud, to conform, or to fit a mold they understood.
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Aras was suffering from a very specific kind of modern ache: the quiet accumulation of being alive. It was the weight of unfulfilled dreams, the pressure to always be "okay," and the realization that his inner world was drifting further and further away from the world outside. He had a heavy trouble entirely of his own making, locked deep in his chest. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to tell
He stared at the ink. He wanted to explain it to someone. He wanted to scream it. But Aras was a gentle soul. He didn't know how to dump his heavy, messy trauma onto someone else's plate. People didn't really listen to the quiet ones
A young woman sat on the other end of the long bench. She was holding a guitar case. She noticed him staring blankly at the water and gave him a soft, polite nod. Aras forced a faint smile and looked back at his notebook.
Aras realized then that he didn't need to explain his trouble politely, nor did he need to scream it to the deaf world. Sometimes, just being alone together in the music of your own quiet existence is enough to make the weight bearable.