One 3" sticker as pictured

I was not always a rock.

Once, I was soft—something like a person, something like a heart. I used to feel everything in color. Laughter had a taste. Love had a shape. Hope lived in my hands. But then life pressed down—too long, too hard—and I changed.

I didn’t break.

I hardened.

People say time heals everything, but that’s not true. Time doesn’t heal—it buries. It layers silence over pain until it looks like strength from far away. Until people say, “Wow, you’re so strong.” No—I just stopped being allowed to fall apart.

So I became stone, because stone doesn’t ask for help. Stone doesn’t scare anyone with how deeply it feels. Stone doesn’t need to explain why it still hurts. Stone can carry everything forever.

But even rocks cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Quiet—like rain at 3 AM that no one else hears. Some of us cry molten pain, burning down our faces. Some of us cry stardust, holding galaxies we weren’t built for. Some of us cry empty tears—the kind that fall even when you don’t know why anymore.

We don’t cry because we are weak.

We cry because we remember.

We remember trust. We remember softness. We remember what it cost to survive. And somewhere inside the cracks, there is still a small voice whispering:

“Feeling is not a failure.”

So we let the tears fall.

Not to erase the past—

but to prove we’re still alive beneath the silence.

If you have ever held your pain quietly, if you have ever felt too much but said nothing—

then maybe you are one of us.

A quiet survivor.

A silent fighter.

A crying rock.