I remember what it used to feel like. Warmth. Anger. Fear. Things that pulsed under the skin, electric and wild. They used to move through me so easily. Now there’s nothing. No pulse. No spark. Just… stillness. People think silence is peaceful. They’re wrong. Real silence- the kind that seeps into you- feels like being buried alive in your own mind. I still know what emotions look like. I’ve studied them long enough.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWkgJSsBuy1
The way eyes widen when something surprises you. The way laughter pushes the corners of the mouth upward. The pause before someone lies. It’s all data now- visible, measurable. I can recognize it, describe it, even copy it if I have to. But I don’t feel any of it. They call that emotional intelligence. I call it mimicry.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv9SOe3VNJH
Every morning, I stand in front of the mirror and remind myself: People are watching. So I smile. A small, harmless one. I’ve perfected it- not too wide, not too forced. When I talk, I make sure to blink at regular intervals. I move my hands when I speak because apparently, that makes people seem “alive.” When someone tells a joke, I laugh on cue. It’s never funny, but I know what sound laughter should make. It’s like breathing- automatic, pointless.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCKQUqSkeS3
At school, they think I’m quiet, thoughtful, maybe shy. They don’t realize silence isn’t a choice. It’s just easier than lying all the time. If I speak too much, someone might notice how carefully I build sentences- how every word is constructed from what I should say, not what I actually want to. Once, someone told me I was “calm under pressure.” If only they knew. You can’t panic if you don’t feel fear.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxeCPKAmr8f
Sometimes people test me. They tell me stories about their lives, about things that made them cry or laugh or break. They want to see if I’ll react. I always do. Perfectly. My face shifts the way it should- eyes softening, mouth tightening, nodding in all the right places. And then they look relieved, like I’ve passed some invisible test. Like they’ve confirmed that I’m one of them. They have no idea how rehearsed it is. I watch them all the time. Not because I care- because I need to understand the mechanics of it.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4ndUi1VBZh
Happiness: the eyebrows lift, the pupils dilate, the body leans forward.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4b0rLFqHbX
Sadness: slower speech, softer volume, eyes drop.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRQSkRbZtWz
Anger: shallow breathing, rigid posture, clenched hands.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrz98TSy5ZU
It’s not emotion anymore. It’s anatomy. Like studying the movement of animals. Predictable. Repetitive. Sometimes I wonder if that’s all humans are- biological reactions wrapped in stories to make themselves feel important.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡySobG7SBmK
There was a time I would’ve disagreed with that. I would’ve argued that people are more than the sum of their instincts- that emotion makes them human. Now I just watch. And count how often they contradict themselves.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRFeGWA06qS
I don’t remember when I stopped feeling. There’s no exact moment, no warning sign. Just… absence. One day I was full. The next, hollow. But I remember what came after. The quiet. The unbearable quiet.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvw68pxw1FJ
At first, I thought it would pass- that maybe I was numb, that the emotions would come back once I was ready. But they didn’t. Days turned to months, and the quiet stayed. People told me to talk about it. To “process.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them there was nothing left to process. You can’t process a void. So I adapted.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡo0xYUZnIIH
Now, I function on logic. Emotion used to be the current that moved me. Now it’s structure, sequence, and reasoning. Every decision calculated, every reaction studied. It’s almost peaceful, in a way- living without the chaos of feeling. No guilt. No fear. No heartbreak. Just observation. Routine. Control. 220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1mGhfIlJ4X
There’s something wrong with my hands. 220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡv7JfdCi6CN
They tremble sometimes. Not visibly- not enough for anyone else to notice- but I feel it. A vibration under the skin, like something trapped is trying to escape. It lasts for a few seconds, then disappears.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡggRv4lgvoh
I’ve started timing it.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKD4GE5VRLV
The longest was seventeen seconds.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBhBvkIuHKf
The shortest, five.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwmRnSJp9Lp
There’s no pattern. No trigger. Just static, here and gone. I tell myself it’s nothing. A muscle spasm. A biological glitch. Still, I write it down. I’ve begun keeping records again. Not of people this time- of myself. Heart rate, sleep patterns, things that change and things that don’t. I document how often I blink. How long it takes for my pupils to adjust to light. It’s easier to quantify existence when you can measure it.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlsHos3l3TM
But some things resist measurement.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeoFaBxlpPz
Like the sound that follows me when the world is quiet- a faint hum, low and steady, that fades when I move but returns when I’m still. I used to think it was a noise outside- a fridge, a light, something mechanical. But it’s not. It’s internal. I can feel it behind my ribs. A low-frequency hum, like the earth vibrating inside my chest.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF5x5V7TjeP
Lately, people have been commenting on how pale I look. I told them it’s the lighting. That I’m tired. They laugh and agree, because people love easy explanations. They don’t want to hear that maybe some of us are just fading, cell by cell, from the inside out.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡasWLCUA9bY
At night, I dream. Not about anything. Just… space. The kind of darkness that feels full. There’s sound in it- faint, muffled, like movement behind a wall. I always wake up before I see what’s there. The strange part is what happens after. When I wake, I can’t remember the dream clearly, but I can feel it in my body- a pulse, heavy and unfamiliar, like I was about to feel something but couldn’t. Almost, but not quite.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4yQqNhp0YP
Yesterday, I sat in the park during lunch. There were people everywhere- laughing, talking, feeding the pigeons. I watched a child fall, scrape his knee, and cry. His mother ran over, lifted him up, soothed him. The usual sequence. But something about it unsettled me. Not the crying, not the blood- the sound she made when she held him. That low, trembling voice that people use when they’re trying not to fall apart.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡz6GjE9zyYo
It vibrated through me in a way I didn’t expect. Like my body recognized it before my mind did. For a moment, I thought I might cry too. Not because I cared- but because it felt like my body was mimicking a memory it couldn’t access. I didn’t, though. I just sat there and watched until the feeling passed. 220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9SDxOvvnJW
Then I wrote:220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTDSdCK1efW
Mother’s voice- physical reaction. Not emotional. Possible reflex memory.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ369CZQOPPu
Sometimes I catch myself saying “we” when I mean “I.” It’s a small thing, but it happens often enough to notice. At first, I thought it was just speech pattern- something I picked up from listening to others. But now, when I hear it back, it doesn’t sound like a mistake. It sounds like the truth leaking out.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkHk0ognCnm
Today, someone touched my arm. Just a passing gesture- a classmate trying to get my attention. And I flinched. Not consciously. My body recoiled before I could register it. The look on her face told me it wasn’t subtle. She asked if I was okay. I said yes. She smiled, uncertain.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSxsYl3CTLs
Afterward, I spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to understand what that was. I studied my reflection, my posture, the slight tremor in my fingers. I tried to recreate the moment in my mind- the contact, the reflex- but every time I did, I felt that same static rising beneath my skin. It was the same vibration as before. Only stronger.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAZaqdlj1Zi
It’s strange- the mind can erase details, but the body doesn’t forget. Sometimes I wonder if my stillness isn’t peace at all, but paralysis. Maybe emotion didn’t die. Maybe it just sank somewhere I can’t reach. And maybe whatever’s down there is starting to move again.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFWSI6ovBxO
I’m not afraid. I don’t think I’m capable of that anymore. But I recognize the pattern- the same way I recognize a storm before it breaks. Something is stirring underneath all this quiet. It’s small now- a tremor, a flicker, a hum. But every day, it grows louder.220Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBLtZQpqA98
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and then Add to home screen.