They kept calling it freedom,

but no one ever defined what we were supposed to be free from.

I was born in a city where the sky had been replaced by screens,

and people no longer looked up —

only forward.

Always forward.

Chasing things that disappeared the moment they touched them.

My name doesn’t matter.

It was given to me by a system that never asked who I was.

Just another profile.

Another input.

Another asset in the algorithm.

But something cracked one night.

Not a revelation.

Not a revolution.

Just…

a sound.

Faint. Familiar.

Not from outside, but from within.

A voice I had forgotten was mine.

It whispered,

“You were not made to obey the rhythm.

You were the one meant to write it.”

So I stopped scrolling.

And I started listening.

To silence.

To stillness.

To the noise beneath the noise —

The one that screams truth when the world demands performance.

That night, I wrote my first sentence outside the cage.

“I remember who I was… before they told me who I should be.”

I don’t know what happens next.

But I know this:

When you start listening to the voice they tried to erase,

you stop being content.

You stop being a product.

You start becoming… real.

Have you ever heard your own voice… beneath the noise?