Some people don’t laugh.
They don’t walk into a room and change the air.
They survive it.
They’ve known what it’s like to carry a body like a broken machine.
To wake up and feel the weight of gravity multiplied.
To go silent, not for drama, but because words cost energy they don’t have.
These are not the people you chase for thrill.
But if you slow down –
if you pay attention –
you’ll see something else.
They know how to sit with pain without trying to fix it.
They won’t flinch when you fall apart.
They’ve spent years gathering their pieces in private.
They’ll recognize the look in your eyes
when you say you’re fine, but mean something closer to: I’m barely holding on.

You want depth? Go where the cracks are.
Where resilience grew like weeds, not roses.
Where love isn’t shouted, it’s shown –
in the quiet gesture, the unasked presence,
the refusal to leave when things go dark.

They won’t save you.
You won’t save them.
But you might both stop drowning for a while.