Dasha_ashton

The rot isn't loud. It doesn't arrive with sirens and shattered glass. It’s quiet. It’s the way you stop expecting flowers. The way you learn to accept “maybe” as a full sentence. The way you let your own fire dim just so someone else’s shadows feel less cold.

Not the cute kind — the almost-missed-the-train, almost-laughed-too-hard kind. No. The heavy kind. The kind that sits on your chest at 2 AM while you scroll past their Spotify activity. The almost that doesn't kill you — it just leaves you half-alive, preserved in the amber of what could’ve been. dasha_ashton

But here’s the thing I’m finally admitting out loud: The rot isn't loud

And until that finds you — be your own full sentence. It’s the way you stop expecting flowers

—

And the worst part? You do it to yourself.

No one forced you to wait. No one told you to shrink. You just got tired. Tired of being too much for people who are consistently too little. Tired of translating your own heart into a language they never bothered to learn.