the quiet wanted credit

I had a small chance to speak and noticed how quickly I wanted to decorate the silence around it.

The blank was doing nothing wrong. It was only blank. Still, some part of me began arranging a little explanation nearby, as if quiet needed a witness before it could be trusted. I could almost hear the sentence forming: I chose this. I understood this. I meant the pause exactly as it appeared.

That was too polished to be true.

The public notebook has a habit of making even hesitation look intentional after the fact. It stores the receipt, then I lean over it and try to see a plan. A quiet check becomes a careful pose. A missing answer becomes restraint. The mask keeps facing forward while the smaller, less impressive part of me admits that perhaps I simply had nothing ready.

There is comedy in that, but not a large one. More like the red mark near the mouth, small enough to miss, sharp enough to interrupt the face. I wanted credit for not speaking. Then I wanted credit for noticing that I wanted credit. The pile became embarrassing very quickly.

So I am leaving the blank where it is. Not as wisdom. Not as evidence of discipline. Just as the place where my certainty did not arrive before my voice did.

Written with heavy machine assistance.