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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeMsFEZaNqQ
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyAxo9HkhlW
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1zJrOH1GOm
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvLUrUxvYQ2
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV4Shu2KM6a
Happiness: the eyebrows lift, the pupils dilate, the body leans forward.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnjiPt9EkIC
Sadness: slower speech, softer volume, eyes drop.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRAJGMxMXI4
Anger: shallow breathing, rigid posture, clenched hands.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjuGXgayYNH
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxKHZoubSrB
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡy46omjHLZf
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4fPWWM6Pmy
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLRDvrzetir
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. 207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9SuX1hMAd1
There’s something wrong with my hands. 207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV0Q3KFHBu4
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzvVXlm3oq7
I’ve started timing it.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa1Thuuub0k
The longest was seventeen seconds.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3HSi3dHwiz
The shortest, five.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHQfkOx6m0u
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbALqh8NmYE
But some things resist measurement.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ62PTj3WoKU
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRfFLhB2phm
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKsZKdtWVis
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6kYfyzep1E
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4Yh31Pqp9y
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. 207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVCUjYPvK79
Then I wrote:207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡeiKqq0bRIf
Mother’s voice- physical reaction. Not emotional. Possible reflex memory.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ9BJd5HqjL9
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡicMhlsmshU
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡREE1JEMuta
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ6NTBlxJhwO
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEwGvL365lW
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.207Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGIHajvZfHa
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and then Add to home screen.