I don’t think anyone knows. Or maybe they do—and they’re afraid of him.

No one comes.

Not my grandparents. Not my aunts. Not even the one whom birthed me. Not anyone who’s ever said I love you like it was a vow instead of a decoration. No one checks on me to see if I’m okay. No knock. No call. No “Are you safe?” No “Do you need me?”

Just silence.

And silence isn’t empty. Silence is a room that locks from the outside.

But if I truly loved someone… I know what I would do.

No matter the circumstances, I would save them. Or at the very least, I would reach for them. I would check. I would show up in whatever small way I could, because love—real love—doesn’t disappear when it gets complicated.

Yet here I am. Nothing.

So I talk to God.

Not in the pretty way. Not in the polished-prayer way. I talk to Him the way you talk when you’re trying not to fall apart. I wonder if I was put here for a reason, because it has to mean something—this life, this ache, this endurance.

I wonder if I’m being shaped into something I can’t see yet.

And still… it stings. Even the ones who swear they love me keep proving that maybe they don’t.

Or maybe they do, and they just won’t risk anything for it.

Either way, the result is the same:

I’m alone in the place they promised I wouldn’t be alone in.

I see there are millionaires. I see millionaires around me every day.

They are not on TV. They don’t show their faces on the screens.

I know for a fact, Dreambook—these people are very powerful.

And God is the only one who answers— even if it’s only with enough air to make it through the next minute.

I Think My Fear Has A Name. It’s: Silence.

– Your in distress goth, Luna