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Stay
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The floor was cold, even through the thin mat beneath them. It always was. Cold floors reminded them where they stood—low, waiting, still.
They kept their head bowed. Not because they were told to, but because looking up felt like a mistake. Looking up meant hoping. Hoping was dangerous.
The mask made the world smaller. Sound came dull and distant, like it had to pass through layers of regret before reaching them. That was fitting. Most things in their life had arrived late and muted anyway—opportunities, confidence, mercy.
They had once believed strength meant standing tall. Now they understood: strength was staying still when everything inside you wanted to run.
“Stay,” the voice had said earlier. Just one word. Calm. Certain. No anger in it. That was what made it powerful.
So they stayed.
Time stretched. Knees ached. Shoulders burned. But they did not move. Movement was a choice, and choices were heavy. Being told what to do was lighter. Simpler. Safer.
They weren’t proud of how they got here. Debt. Mistakes. Silence when they should have spoken. Speaking when they should have listened. Life had narrowed their options slowly, then all at once.
Now there was only obedience—and the strange comfort it brought.
In submission, there was clarity. No pretending. No explaining. No failing expectations, because none were theirs to meet.
They exhaled slowly and waited.
Waiting had become something they were good at.
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Posted on : Jan 22, 2026
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