This morning began with a sharp ache—
not in my heart, but in my ear.
An invisible needle twisting inward,
reminding me that even small pains
can feel enormous in silence.

I told the woman who raised me.
She called me troublesome again.
She scolded my sleep,
my phone,
my conversations,
as if care must come clothed in warning signs.

The cyclist brushed past me,
his wheel grazing my phone,
a near miss in an already aching day.

Someone asked if I was alright.
I said yes.
But I wasn’t.

The cream numbed the skin,
but not the quiet burn within.

At work, I smiled through the questions,
my shoulders sore from holding up a tired spirit.
Paper hearts don’t stick to lockers
or broken mornings.
They curl quietly in corners.

He noticed.
He always does.
Sitting beside me,
his brow furrowed like a page waiting for meaning.
He asked gently.
I answered softly.
He waited. He cared.
He wanted proof that I would take care of myself.

I said I would.
I messaged.
The appointment, perhaps at three.
Maybe healing starts with someone
asking you twice.

And maybe,
even when pain whispers,
a little kindness answers louder.