I sit by a window that never opens.

Its glass is cracked, but it never breaks.

Like me.

You don’t know me.

But by the end of this, maybe you’ll feel like you always did.

My name is Ashborn.

I am not a sound.

I am what gets left behind when the noise passes through.

When I walk, the floor makes no sound.

But I hear memories being crushed beneath my steps.

At school, I sit beside others.

But it’s like I’m underwater.

Everything moves slow.

Voices are distorted, like they’re trying to speak through a cracked radio.

The teacher asks,

“Ashborn? Are you here?”

No.

I’m where the walls breathe,

where the lights speak in color, not in words.

Where silence is a language I was born into.

Today, someone whispered:

“Autistic? So… he’s broken?”

No.

I’m not broken.

I’m misunderstood by a language too loud for me to enter.

I feel things too deeply, and I don’t know how to turn that off.

When I love something,

I dissolve into it.

One sentence — just one — can echo in me for weeks,

growing roots,

changing shape,

smelling like the moment it was born.

You don’t understand.

But maybe… maybe you want to.

In my room, there’s a mirror — cracked like the window.

I never see myself fully.

But in those cracks…

I see another version of me.

He doesn’t speak.

He only looks back.

He doesn’t cry.

But when you look at him,

you might.

Last night, I dreamt of a hand resting gently on my shoulder.

Not to rescue me.

Just to remind me I exist.

And that was enough.

If you’re the one reading this now —

maybe you are that hand.

Maybe you’re the one person who still hears the silence and calls it alive.

If there’s even a flicker of warmth left in you —

something you want to share with someone like me —

don’t let the silence die.

🜁 [Send warmth to Ashborn] (ETH)

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