My parents didn’t teach me love.
I learned it from the silence.

My mother never asked why my eyes were red.
My father only noticed me when I made a mistake.

I learned to hug myself when no one else did,
to whisper to myself, “It’s okay.”

I learned to be quiet when the house was too loud,
and wipe my own tears when their words cut too deep.

I held my own hand when the world felt too heavy.
I taught myself to survive in a house
that never felt like home.

I survived —
but at what cost?