You didn’t raise your voice—
you raised a mirror.
And she flinched.
Not at the glass,
but at her own reflection
unveiled in the quiet violence
of your steadiness.
You didn’t throw the first blow,
you spoke the first truth.
And that was enough
to tip the room
into performance.
She took the moral high ground
by elevator.
You took the stairs,
with a bleeding heart and burning lungs.
They say nothing happened.
But your body knows better.
You paid for it in cortisol,
in the knot behind your ribs,
in the trembling hours afterward
where your nervous system
rewound every syllable
in a theatre of what-ifs
and should-not-haves.
You left your dignity on the table
like a cheque no one wanted to cash.
And still—
still you returned
with your spine intact
and your fury folded in your pocket
like a quiet revolution.
Let them call it overreaction.
Let them name you difficult.
Let them pretend they didn’t feel
the temperature shift
when the truth entered the room
wearing your mouth.
You know what it cost.
You know what it saved.
And still,
you would pay it again.
Not because you owe them.
But because you refuse
to owe yourself
a single silence.
Stunning.
Masterful