If I Stop Talking, the World’s Going to End

There was this girl… her name? Doesn’t matter. Could’ve been yours. Could’ve been mine.

She talked too much. Always had. Always did. Always would.



Not in that “I love to hear myself speak” way.

It was more like…

If she didn’t let it out, it would eat her alive.

All of it. The stories, the memories, the pain she never asked for but somehow inherited.



Words pour out too fast, too deep, too much.

She tells you about her first heartbreak before you’ve even finished your drink.

She brings up her childhood trauma mid-laugh.

And by the time you blink, she’s already saying,

“Sorry, that was weird, wasn’t it?”


But she can’t stop.

She doesn’t know how.


Because somewhere deep inside her, where the hurt still sleeps in the fetal position. She believes if she stays silent long enough…

you’ll disappear.


She had this brain that moved too fast. Tangents everywhere. She’d lose her point halfway through and circle back like she was chasing a thread she dropped in the middle of the sentence. Thoughts jumping timelines. Mouth running faster than her mind can catch.

She talks before she even knows what she’s saying.

Then rewinds every word in her head on a loop at 2AM. ADHD, they called it. She just called it chaos.

But damn, there was beauty in her chaos…

if you actually stayed long enough to see it.



But there’s magic in it, too.

The way she makes people feel seen.

The way she blurts out something someone’s never said out loud and makes them laugh, or cry, or both.

Because her rawness isn’t chaos. It’s truth…

unfiltered…

unapologetic…


Still, she lays in bed some nights, thinking about how many people she scared off just by being herself.

The worst part? She gets it.

She knows she’s a lot.


But she also knows this:

If she stops talking,

if she swallows it all down again,

if she becomes quiet and small and easy like they always wanted…

she’ll disappear.


And then the world will end.

At least, her world.


So she keeps talking.

Keeps laughing too loud.

Oversharing. Tangenting. Rambling.

And if she apologizes for it, don’t let her.


Just hold her face, look her in the eye, and tell her:

“I see you. You’re not too much. You’re exactly enough. And in fact, I love your noise. I love your mess. I love your everything.”


And maybe, just maybe…

She’ll believe you.



That girl?

She’s me.

She’s you.

She’s anyone who’s ever begged to be loved without begging.


Anyone who’s ever drowned in silence and thought

maybe if I just tell them everything, they’ll stay.



 






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