Inside, I mean. Not around me — out there it's always someone yelling, doors slamming, people laughing too loud like they’re afraid of silence. But inside... it’s like someone cut the sound. Left only the static — ringing in my ears and this feeling that something should be there, but it’s not.
I used to try talking.
Tried opening my mouth, telling my mom that I was falling apart. She’d look past me. Always busy — work, reports, her boyfriend’s drama. I was just a chair in the corner — there, but not in the way.
At first I punched the wall. Just to feel something. Then I found a pair of drumsticks in my brother’s old drawer — he used to talk about starting a band before he left. Then... he just vanished. But the sticks stayed.
I remember sitting at the beat-up kit in the school music room — hands shaking like hell.
First hit — and something woke up.
It was like, for the first time, I said something. Not with words, but still. Loud and clear.
Now I play when it’s unbearable. When I don’t want to see anyone. When my head is echoing with that thought — that all of this means nothing — I go to the rehearsal room. And I drown it out. Louder. Harder. Until the noise outside matches the noise inside.
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