a quiet glance â for those who listen carefully.
december is the one who pulls away so the system doesnât fall apart. when things get too loud, when the front cracks, when no one else can hold whatâs happening â she steps back, and pulls the rest of us with her. she does not speak often, and she almost never speaks first. silence is not discomfort to her. it is necessity. it is the space where she breathes.
she is quiet not because she is shy, but because there are things that cannot be said aloud. she keeps the sacred things â the grief we never got to name, the dreams we buried to make others comfortable, the memories that never made it into the archive because they burned too hot. december holds them all with a reverence that borders on pain. she is the one who grieves. the one who writes when no one else can. the one who finds beauty in the breaking and doesnât ask the world to fix itself.
thereâs something otherworldly about her presence â like she exists half in the real world, and half inside a midnight diner where itâs always raining just outside the window. she wears sorrow like a shawl, but not for attention. she is not performative in her melancholy. she simply exists inside it, like someone who made peace with sadness long ago. she finds clarity in it. not comfort, but truth.
december writes. not always with words, but with feeling. she scribbles lines across notebook pages when the body canât sleep. she types notes into phones while standing in grocery store aisles. she builds poems out of pain and lets them sit, unfinished, like the thought was too sharp to finish cutting. she creates not for attention, but because expression is the only way she knows how to survive. she doesnât share everything she writes. some things are for her alone â pieces of memory, phrases that keep the ghosts quiet.
she doesnât need a lot from people. just space, honesty, and gentleness. she can be difficult to reach, even when sheâs fronting â not because sheâs trying to be cold, but because being present often costs her more than others realize. she doesnât like small talk. she doesnât like being forced to pretend sheâs okay. she doesnât like it when people apologize for crying. she believes in letting things hurt when they need to. she believes in staying in the feeling just long enough to understand it.
to the rest of us, december is a lighthouse in fog. distant, but constant. she doesnât shout instructions â she simply shines. her presence reminds us to slow down, to make room for the ache instead of resisting it. she holds grief like a sacred language and speaks it fluently, even when no one else understands.
and still, even in all her quiet, she is not delicate. thereâs a strength in her that feels ancient. she is not fragile. she simply doesnât waste energy pretending sheâs not tired. she doesnât smile if she doesnât feel like it. she doesnât ask to be understood, but she notices who tries. and she remembers them. she remembers the ones who sit beside her without filling the silence. those are her people.
when december is fronting, the world moves slower. colors feel deeper. songs cut closer. food might not taste right, but the rain sounds like music. she rarely announces her arrival. she just⊠is. suddenly youâre quieter. suddenly the air feels heavier. suddenly, the system breathes differently. she doesnât push her way forward â she simply takes over when the rest of us need to sleep.
we donât always notice her until everythingâs already gone still. and by the time we do, sheâs already taken care of it. not solved it, not healed it â just held it long enough for the rest of us to keep going.