They say time heals.

And maybe, on the surface, it does. Maybe the days stretch out just long enough to soften the sharpest edges, to make it easier to speak without your voice shaking, to carry the weight without dropping it. But time doesn’t reach everything.

What about the parts of me that are still frozen in place, still standing in that exact moment everything shifted? The moment trust cracked like glass underfoot. The moment I realized the people I thought were holding me were letting go without warning. Time moved forward, but something in me stayed behind – quiet, bracing, breath caught in my throat, waiting for something that never came.

There’s a version of me that still hasn’t exhaled. She’s still scanning the room for safety. Still trying to make sense of how easily someone could smile and leave a wound they’ll never have to see. I keep functioning. I keep living. But some days, it feels like I’m doing it from the outside in – performing okay while some old part of me stands silently in the wreckage, asking if anyone noticed how much I changed that day.

What about that breath?

The one I held so tightly, thinking someone would look me in the eye and say, “I see it. I see how much that broke you.”

But no one did.

And eventually I got tired of waiting.

So I learned how to carry the ache quietly.

How to smile without softening the grief.

How to move on without ever really leaving that moment behind.

Time doesn’t heal everything.

Some parts just stop asking to be witnessed.

They become the echo in your chest when the room gets too quiet.

The reason why trust feels heavier than it should.

The place inside you that still waits for someone to notice you were never really okay.