Author: Nara Hodge

Turning to the night breeze as my only confessor I told it the reason why I feel under pressure. Each whispered word is gone with no trace, leaving a densely thick silence in its place. Sometimes the silence is cruelly stark— colorless, blending into the dark; At other times it is incredibly loud— a deafening silence, no earplugs allowed, clinging all over my skin like a leech, sucking all the blo...