The silence she carries - by Vicky🦋✨💋

August came like a thief — Not in the night, but in broad daylight, Dragging hunger, bills, and silence by the neck. She was a university student — Not just chasing a degree, But fighting a battle no one could see. Her department demanded too much — Too many dues, too many projects, Too many deadlines attached to price tags. They called it education.But nobody taught her how to survive it. She looked at her hands — not lazy hands. Hands that had written assignments, Scrubbed pots, sketched project models, And held onto hope like it was oxygen. But still… always empty. Money came and disappeared like a ghost. She paid today, they asked for more tomorrow. As if her wallet was a river with no end. Her roommates talked about shopping, Restocking foodstuff, getting new shoes. She smiled. But her bag was empty, Her gas was finished, And the last pack of noodles sat like treasure in her cupboard. Meals turned into guesses. Breakfast skipped. Lunch ignored. Dinner replaced with sleep and stomach growls. Her father, her backbone, Now bent under the weight of life. Mom was sick operation pending. And salary? Nowhere to be found. The place he worked hadn’t paid in months. He sent ₦2,000 For something worth ₦50,000. He apologized. She cried… not because it wasn’t enough, But because he still tried. And in that moment, She knew love wasn’t loud — Sometimes, it was sacrifice wearing shame. The school didn’t stop. Fees. SWEP. Projects. Printing. As though stress wasn’t enough punishment. She started shrinking Not physically, But emotionally. She didn’t laugh much. Didn’t pick calls. Didn’t join gist. Because what could she say? “I can’t eat?” “I’m tired?” “I’m drowning?” Instead, she wore silence like a sweater. Heavy. Itched. But it covered enough. The mirror stopped showing a bright student. It showed a quiet fighter. Eyes tired. Spirit thin. Still… moving. She read under candlelight. Bathed from fetched buckets. Stretched ₦500 for days. But she never stopped. She still went to class. Still showed up. Still hoped. Because deep down, There was a flicker — That maybe September would smile. They didn’t see her skip meals. Didn’t hear her whispers to God. Didn’t notice when she stopped humming to music. Didn’t know she was surviving on empty. But she was. And that was enough. Because this pain? It wasn’t her end. It was her fire. And one day, she’d write about it. Not as a tragedy But as a testimony.

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