I was thirteen the first time someone told me I talked like I was broken. Not stupid. Not mute. Just... broken. Like my mouth was a machine with missing parts and no one had the patience to wait while I found them. Every syllable was a landmine. My tongue seized, breath caught, throat locked like it was trying to save me from humiliation-only making it worse. When I did speak? People squirmed. Looked away. Finished my sentences like they were doing me a favor. Teachers got frustrated. My father spoke for me at interviews. My mother apologized for me at dinners. So I learned to stay quiet. Silence was safer. Cleaner. By eighteen, I had mastered it. Lived inside it. Until her. She found me in the library, fumbling over the word borrow. I couldn't say it. She could've looked away. Instead, she smiled. "Take your time," she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Iris. Paint-stained fingers. Worn-out shoes. Two jobs. Still made time to sit with me, showing me how to breathe through the stutter-not over it. Not around it. Through it. She treated me like I wasn't fragile. Like I was whole. And slowly-I changed. I began speaking in full sentences. Started holding eye contact. I could introduce myself at business events without trembling. And finally "fit" to inherit my father's name. I became the heir my parent always wanted. And when it came time to choose a wife-an arranged match-I said yes. Not because I loved her. Because she was easy. Perfect in public. Iris didn't fit that world. And I didn't realize I'd cut out the best part of myself until she was gone. She just left. Quietly. Like she'd expected it. Now, I hear her absence louder than I ever heard her voice. But I'll find her. And I'll say what I should've said from the start. Even if it takes a thousand broken words- I'll make her hear me. Cover photo courtesy of Vecteezy.com
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