The ones who stay quiet

There are people who move through life like they’re apologizing for existing.
Not because they’re weak. Not because they lack light.
But because somewhere along the way, someone taught them that their voice was too much.
Or maybe not enough.

So they learn to make themselves small.
To step back.
To avoid taking up space they were never told they had the right to claim.

They become experts at silence.
At waiting for the right moment to speak — a moment that rarely comes.
At hiding entire galaxies behind quiet eyes.

It’s not shyness.
It’s survival.

They’re the ones who listen more than they speak.
Who feel everything, but only show what feels safe.
Who carry songs inside their chest like promises they’re too afraid to break.
And yet — they’re the ones who shine the brightest.
Not in the loud, explosive kind of way.
But in the soft, steady glow that stays long after everyone else has left.

I’ve always had a soft spot for those people.
The ones who think no one sees them.
The ones who write letters they never send.
The ones who dream of being held without having to ask.

I wonder if they know how much they matter.
If they realize that their quiet is not emptiness — it’s depth.
That their silence speaks in ways no scream ever could.

Some lights are not meant to burn fast and loud.
Some lights are meant to last.

To stay soft.
To stay constant.
To stay.

I don’t know if you see it.
If you feel the way you echo, even when you try to disappear into the background.
But I do.

I always have.

— Elio R.