The Rooms We No Longer Speak In

We laugh loudest with friends.
Cry safely with strangers.
And live in houses where we barely talk; not because we hate, but because we’ve stopped knowing how.

I live with family. But many days, it feels like we are just sharing furniture.
We greet. We eat. We part ways.
The TV is louder than our voices.
I can tell you what my colleague is struggling with but I don’t even know what’s keeping my brother up at night.

It's not hate. It's distance. Silent, unspoken distance.

Maybe it's how we were raised; “Don’t talk back. Be strong. Don’t cry.”
Maybe that’s why we drink.
Not for fun, but to feel something.
To loosen the tongue. To escape the silence.
To build a different kind of family in the taverns and WhatsApp groups.

But sometimes I wonder...
What would happen if we started asking our mothers how they’re really doing?
If we sat with our siblings, not just at meals, but in meaning?
If we built homes where the heart, not just the roof, brought us together?

Because the world is noisy, but what we’re craving is connection.
And sometimes, the healing we’re looking for is sitting in the next room; waiting for someone to knock, and say, “Can we talk?”