You ever hold something in so long you forget what it sounded like? Man, I didn’t even mean to say it — it just slipped, like breath, like blood. And you — you were there. I saw the way your face changed. Like I’d broken something you were still pretending wasn’t broken. But I said it. And now you know. Yeah — now you know. You blinked. That’s when I knew it landed. Not deep, maybe — just enough to itch where it shouldn’t. You started looking at your hands, like they could answer for you. Like silence was some kind of virtue. But man… you heard it. You can’t put that back. I said it. And now you know. Yeah — now you know. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a cry. Just a sentence you don’t say out loud. Something about what we let happen — and who we keep forgiving just to sleep at night. You heard it. And you felt it land. People don’t change until something breaks. Most don’t listen unless it’s safe. Truth don’t rise like a song or a flag — it just waits. Until someone stops being afraid to say it. I said it. And now you know. No way back. Now you know.
