Walls Built High

The world outside my window was a watercolor of muted greys and greens, a constant reminder of the quiet life I’d curated. Inside, the silence was a heavy blanket, muffling the echoes of a past I desperately tried to outrun. Each day was a careful construction, a meticulously placed brick in the fortress I’d built around my heart. Walls built high, not of stone and mortar, but of carefully chosen silences, averted gazes, and practiced smiles that never quite reached my eyes.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, not at first. It was a primal instinct, a survival mechanism honed through years of navigating treacherous emotional terrain. After the storms, after the shattering of innocence, the only safe harbor I knew was the one I created within myself. This space, though lonely, felt secure. I learned to anticipate the shifts in the air, the subtle changes in tone that signaled danger. My senses became hyper-vigilant, tuned to the slightest tremor that might suggest a breach in my defenses.

I moved through life like a phantom, a specter observing from the periphery. Relationships were fragile things, easily broken, and I couldn’t afford another fracture. Friendships were kept at a careful arm’s length, their warmth a welcome sensation, but always tempered by a cautious reserve. I’d learned that vulnerability was a chink in the armor, an invitation for pain. So, I became an expert at presenting a composed exterior, a placid surface that hid the turbulent currents beneath.