Someone asked me a question once.
A question that didn’t whisper, didn’t shout…
it did both.
Loud enough to rattle,
quiet enough to haunt.
A question that clung to my skin:
“Do you think… you get comfortable with failure?”
I froze.
The words cracked something in me.
Like glass in slow motion.
A stranger –
not blood, not brother,
just someone I had met weeks ago –
looked me in the eye
and dropped that weight on my chest.
And me?
Curiosity spilled out of my mouth:
“Why? Why did you ask me that?”
He said:
“You are too peaceful.”
Too peaceful?
Since when did peace sound like an insult?
Since when did calm look like surrender?
Since when did silence feel like chains?
But again, my lips betrayed me,
they rose like smoke into the air,
and asked the question again:
“Why?”
And he said:
“Because you take everything thrown at you
without a fight.
You just… take it.”
And in that moment,
his words became mirrors.
I saw myself –
not soft, not calm,
but caged.
Not peaceful,
just… quiet.
Quiet like buried fire,
quiet like swallowed screams,
quiet like a storm that forgot
it was born to destroy.
Wow