I was the quiet kind. Not the squeaky wheel. Not the loud one in the room. Not the one demanding to be heard.

I loved people who never asked if I was okay. I listened while my own heart was breaking in silence.

I carried stories I never told. Wounds that never made it into headlines. Scars that never asked for sympathy.

There were days I wanted someone to rescue me— not with sirens, just with presence. But no one came.

So I learned to be my own shelter, my own light, my own voice in the dark.

I didn’t march, I didn’t shout, but I stayed. I cared. I tried to understand what wasn’t mine to carry, while still holding what was. And somewhere along the way, I found a quiet kind of strength— the kind that doesn’t beg to be seen, but refuses to disappear.

So if you read this one day, after I’m gone, know this:

I lived with a love that didn’t need to be loud. And when no one knew I needed rescuing— I found my way home anyway.

— Jeff

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