Have you ever kept something to yourself
because saying it would name it?
Almost as if speaking it
would turn the moment toward you,
so you keep quiet.
Because you wondered
if something real
would ever name it for you.
Not just name it,
but arrive on its own accord—
like an orchestra playing
without a conductor.
And then,
when you least expect it,
it arrives.
The precise moment
every part of you
is present.
It wasn’t words.
It was presence speaking.
Being.
You fold your arms across your chest,
hands rubbing your upper arms—
a gesture almost like a hug,
but somehow more.
Your being follows
without knowing why.
And you trust it.
It isn’t just words arriving,
but an invitation
to be seen.
You wait five seconds
as your whole being
tries to understand
what just happened—
as though every cell in you
has become the centre of the room.
And as the world waits,
you say quietly:
“It is my birthday today.”
And in another’s eyes
you see celebration—
a mirror of light
that meets you
without demand.
You feel the meaning
before the words exist—
how rare it is
to be reached
at the exact frequency
of your own truth.
Later that night
you replay it,
noticing the ache
that isn’t sadness
but recognition.
It was so simple,
yet it reached every part of you—
as if what you hadn’t asked for
had become everything.
Because for the first time,
someone met what was silent
and made it real.
You felt the weight
and the beauty of it—
the way exactness
can become love.
Lost for words,
you said only:
“Thank you.”
And the thank you
was your heart,
wrapped
and offered back.
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