anges That Wouldn’t Go Away

Weeks passed. Maya’s face lost its color. Her clothes hung looser on her frame. She stopped asking to hang out with friends and stopped caring about school projects she once loved.

I watched her push food around her plate and claim she wasn’t hungry. I watched her flinch when she bent to tie her shoes. I watched her retreat further into herself, like a door slowly closing.

What scared me most wasn’t the physical pain.

It was the silence.

Maya used to talk to me about everything. Now she avoided eye contact. Her answers came short and cautious. And whenever Robert walked into a room, her shoulders tightened, just a little—but enough for a mother to notice.

One night, well past midnight, I heard a soft sound coming from her room.

I opened the door and found her curled into herself, knees pulled tight to her chest, tears soaking into her pillow.

“Mom,” she whispered, barely audible, “it hurts. I can’t make it stop.”

That was the moment my hesitation broke.

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