Something I Can’t Say Out Loud

(Progress doesn’t always look like people. Sometimes, it looks like paper. And sometimes… a song.)

It started as a simple class assignment.

“Reflective writing,” the professor said.

“Anything—poem, story, journal. Just let it come from you.”

I stared at the screen.

Blank page.

Blinking cursor.

And so many words I didn’t know how to begin.

Because how do you reflect

on something that still hurts?

How do you write

without bleeding?

But my fingers moved anyway.

No outline.

No plan.

Just truth—disguised as fiction.

I wrote a story

about a bird

that flew across cities, oceans,

forests with shadows and bright lights.

A bird that wanted to rest,

but no one let it.

People tried to trap it,

feed it poison sugar,

or whisper lies wrapped in love.

The bird kept flying.

Too tired to hope.

Too scared to land.

Until one day,

it found a tree

that didn’t ask for anything.

It just stood there—

quiet.

And for the first time,

the bird slept

without fear.

I submitted it.

Quietly.

No big expectations.

Just a deep breath after clicking “send.”

Because that story wasn’t for the class.

It was for the version of me

that still dreams of quiet trees.

A week passed.

Then the professor handed back our submissions.

And on mine—

a note.

“You write like someone who knows pain,

but still believes in peace. Thank you.”

No grade.

No technical critique.

Just that.

And it made something

unclench in my chest.

Later that day,

someone tapped my shoulder.

A classmate I’d never spoken to.

“That bird story… it was yours, right?”

I hesitated.

Nodded.

“It stayed with me. I’ve been that bird too.”

They didn’t say more.

They didn’t need to.

Because something about that moment

felt like safety.

Even without names or details.

And for the first time—

I didn’t feel like a ghost

in my own classroom.

In art class,

we had to make covers for our writing portfolios.

Textures, paint, glue, paper.

No rules.

Just reflection.

I ripped pages from old magazines.

Drew skies with no stars.

Pasted scraps in layers like skin.

I wrote one word in the center:

“Quiet.”

Because sometimes,

silence speaks louder than stories.

And mine was full of noise I’d never said out loud.

Across from me,

that same classmate

was sketching a city skyline.

One tiny figure

on a rooftop under a dark sky.

We didn’t talk.

Just exchanged a glance—

like a secret only two survivors understand.

That night,

I didn’t open Discord.

Didn’t message my long-distance friends.

But I missed them.

I missed how they made me feel

safe,

seen,

held.

Even if their voices only came through headphones.

So I opened my laptop

to distract myself.

And that’s when I pressed play—

on a movie everyone was talking about.

K-Pop: Demon Hunters.

I didn’t expect much.

I just wanted colors, noise,

anything that wasn’t my own thoughts.

But then—

Rumi and Jinu appeared.

And something shifted.

Their banter.

Their bond.

The way they fought beside each other—

flawed but brave.

Afraid but loyal.

It wasn’t just fantasy.

It was something I had craved

in silence.

The kind of connection

where someone knows your shadows

but doesn’t flinch.

Where you fight beside each other,

not against.

And then…

the song played.

“Free.”

That chorus hit like soft thunder.

That melody was a hand

on my trembling shoulder.

“I wanna be free,

But I need someone to stay with me.”

I listened once.

Then again.

Then again.

Over and over

until it was 2 a.m.

And I was crying—

but not the hurt kind of crying.

The kind that says:

I didn’t know I needed this.

I imagined myself

as Rumi.

Fierce but scared.

Damaged but brave.

And I thought:

Do people like Jinu exist

in this world?

The kind that stay?

The kind that don’t need fixing

because they love your broken pieces?

And my chest ached.

Because I wanted that.

I wanted someone

to see me as I am—

messy, silent, awkward—

and still choose me.

But then…

a whisper came back:

“No. You’re not ready.

You crave love,

but you're afraid of it too.”

And it was true.

I wanted love

like a starving child wants bread—

desperately.

But I flinched

every time someone offered it.

Because love

came with expectations.

Love

had hurt before.

Love

felt like danger

with glitter on top.

So I put in my earbuds.

Played “Free” again.

And lay in the dark

wondering if people like that exist.

If relationships like that

can be real

outside of movies

and midnight wishes.

And somewhere between verse and chorus,

I decided—

maybe I won’t know yet.

Maybe I’ll just keep writing,

painting,

gluing skies together,

and hoping.

In class the next day,

I stood up to explain my portfolio cover.

Just one sentence required.

But my heart was racing.

“I made space,” I said.

“Because healing isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it just needs room.”

Silence.

Then soft claps.

Not out of pity—

but understanding.

After class,

that same classmate walked beside me.

No small talk.

Just steps.

Then:

“You ever watch K-Pop: Demon Hunters?”

I smiled.

Almost laughed.

“Yeah… just yesterday.”

“That ‘Free’ song lives in my head.”

And I paused.

Because in that small line—

I felt it again.

That quiet connection

that didn’t ask me to be more than I was.

Just… me.

That night,

I wrote another poem.

“I Want to Be Free, But I’m Scared of the Wind”

Love knocks,

but I stare through the peephole,

wondering

if it’s wearing a mask.

I say I want closeness,

but I build walls

with pretty metaphors

and say it’s art.

I long for arms around me,

but I flinch

at the idea of being held.

I want to be Rumi,

but I’m still learning

how to walk without fear.

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