I live where the sound of silence is broken only by war.
The world outside my window moves on without me—laughing, learning, loving, growing—in colors I cannot touch. Here, the streets are hollow bones. The schools, silent graves. Time itself lies shattered beneath dust and rubble.
I watch others from afar—chasing dreams I cannot reach, climbing ladders I cannot touch, celebrating victories that sound like whispers from another life. They wake without fear. They plan without hesitation. They move through a world that no longer belongs to me. And I… I measure my days by the tremor of explosions, by the moments when the sky feels ready to collapse.
War steals more than homes—it swallows the ordinary: quiet mornings, free laughter, hands meeting without trembling. I walk in my mind, I learn, I love—but always slipping away, always behind glass, always elsewhere.
Every time I look outside, the ordinary becomes alien. Freedom feels like a ghost. Life moves on without me—beautiful and cruel, a language I can see but never speak. Every heartbeat reminds me that the world I once knew is gone, and I wander only in its shadow.