I recognize it in you
before you say a word—
that quiet heaviness,
the way you carry yourself
like you’re holding something
no one else can see.
You smile
at the right moments,
say the right things,
move through the world
like you’ve learned
how to pass for okay.
But I see the cracks.
Not the kind
that shatter everything—
the kind that run deep,
silent,
just beneath the surface.
The kind you hide
because explaining them
would take too long,
and most people
wouldn’t stay long enough
to understand.
That’s how I know—
you’re broken
like me.
Not ruined.
Not beyond repair.
Just shaped
by things
that didn’t ask permission
before they changed you.
We don’t talk about it.
We don’t need to.
There’s something
in the way we exist
around each other—
a quiet recognition,
a shared language
made of what we don’t say.
And maybe that’s enough.
Not fixing.
Not saving.
Just knowing
you’re not the only one
walking around
with pieces that don’t quite fit
the way they used to.
Broken—
but still here.
Still feeling.
Still finding ways
to hold together
in a world
that never promised
we wouldn’t fall apart.
Through the Fog 