They asked why I dropped the blue— like it meant something, like it proved. Uncle smirked, Dad didn’t move. Cleared his throat. That was the cue. Not a bell—it was a break. Silence sharp enough to take. I was thirteen. Dressed in doubt. Wrong voice. Wrong walk. Wrong route. Threaded fear into every fit. Spoke in shapes that didn’t stick. Framed my body, held my breath. Watched the glass reflect their guess. Every time I try to speak, that chime cuts through like broken sleep. It hums in bone, it stains the air— says "stay composed," says "don’t you dare." So I bite back sound and drop my gaze, become the hush they learned to praise. If I can’t be what they designed, then I will ring. I’ll be the chime. Years passed. I played along. Kept my smile where it belonged. Soft replies. Perfect tone. Never loud, never alone. “You were always such a good boy.” That line cracked, but I made no noise. The chime? It rings before I speak. Built-in hush. Muscle-deep. Every pause, a practiced trick. Every “fine,” a politics. Dreams in color. Woke in gray. Bit my tongue to make them stay. I practice stillness like a song. I dress in yes. I move in quiet. My dreams come in color, but I wake in grayscale— every morning, a mute riot. Every time I try to speak, that chime cuts through like broken sleep. It hums in bone, it stains the air— says "stay composed," says "don’t you dare." So I bite back sound and drop my gaze, become the hush they learned to praise. If I can’t be what they designed, then I will ring. I’ll be the chime. Now they say I turned out fine. Say I’m strong. Say I’m theirs. Say “we always knew you’d find your way.” And I nod. And I smile. And I ring.
