The Maid of Orleans Part 1

I said nothing.

She was already flustered, drenched with that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Words wouldn’t land right now

Whatever I offered would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however cowardly it looked, was sometimes the least dangerous option.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

She turned anyway, the way storms always do when they’ve run out of sky.

Her face was red, her voice sharp and unanchored.

“Useless,” she spat, close enough that I could feel it. “You never help. Never.”

It wasn’t shouting so much as screaming— unfiltered, banshee-loud—meant not to be heard but to wound.

Something in me folded.

I left the hotel room before I could say anything unforgivable, before the bitterness grew.

The door closed behind me, and alone in the corridor, I broke, tears blurring the patterned carpet as I walked. My chest burned. My head rang.

And under my breath, through sobs I barely recognised as my own, the words came out ugly and desperate.

Words I didn’t mean, words born only from pain.

The hallway swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.

The Maid of Orleans Part 2

He said nothing

I was already flustered. The heat of menopause consumed me, leaving me drenched in that frantic heat that comes from nowhere and everywhere at once.

But he just lay there, seemingly uninterested.

Whatever I tried, whatever I demanded, would only make it worse. I knew that. Experience had taught me that silence, however unfair it felt, was sometimes the sharpest weapon I had.

So I stayed quiet.

That didn’t save me.

He turned to leave.

His face was pale, jaw tight, eyes darting away. His silence cut as sharply as any word I could have thrown.

“The storm inside me broke; as if it had run out of sky, I could no longer hold it.”

“Useless,” I shouted, letting the syllables hit where they would. “You never help. Never.”

“You never say the words I need. You never hear me. You never see me.

Shouting turned to screaming as I wielded my truth—meant not to be heard but to mark the space, to assert the weight of what I carried alone.

I saw him fold. I saw the hesitation in the shoulders that always tried to seem strong.

I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to speak, to ground me, to fix what I knew he could not. But he left the room before the words could harden into anything permanent.

He slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with only the echoes of my own voice. Chest burning. Pulse thundering in my ears.

I whispered the words now, words I didn’t recognise, ugly, desperate—but not meaningless. They were the only words left that belonged to me.

The hotel room swallowed them whole.

When silence is no longer a choice.
It becomes conditioning.