When the Room Goes Quiet
People always say I have a calming presence, but sometimes it feels like a curse. Wherever I go, silence follows. Conversations pause. Arguments shrink. Eyes turn. I’ve never asked for it, this strange gravity that pulls things toward me. During working hours, they call me “the spark.” At home, I’m “the strong one.” But inside, I’m just tired. I listen to everyone’s stories, their pain, their guilt, their endless need to be understood. They hand me their storms, and I hold them until the thunder feels like it’s mine. Some nights I can’t sleep. I lie there wondering if it’s really empathy or just exhaustion wearing a halo. One Sunday after church, I stayed behind. Everyone left, shoes clicking, laughter echoing outside, and I sat there, staring at sunlight bleeding through the stained glass. It painted the pews in gold and crimson. And I whispered, “God, I don’t even know if You can hear thoughts, but if You do, please, hear this one. I’m tired of being strong for everyone.” There was n...
