The Cage

     He didn’t know when it had started.

Maybe the first day he stopped saying what he really thought.
Or when he began to smile just so no one would worry.

The cage had no visible bars.
It was made of silence, of avoided glances, of words swallowed.
It was made of identical days, measured steps, dreams carefully folded and hidden in the back of a drawer.

At first, he thought it was normal.
Everyone lives like this, right?
You grow up, you work, you stay in your place.
But over time, something inside began to dim.
Colors faded. Other people’s laughter sounded far away, as if it belonged to another world.

He tried to speak once.
To say, "I’m not okay."
But the answers were light, distracted:
"It'll pass."
"You're just tired."
"Don't be so dramatic."

So he went back to silence.
And the cage got smaller.

There were no locks.
No guards.
He was the one closing the door each day—because outside, it was too cold.
Because outside, no one was waiting for him.

The worst part was this:
You get used to it.
To the cage. To the silence. To the nothingness.

One day he woke up and realized he didn’t want to leave anymore.
Not because he was okay,
but because he no longer remembered how.

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