She’s Was Always Shy

By Peter Bowden


She moved through the world like a shadow skimming the edge of light. In grocery aisles and church pews, she kept her eyes low and her shoulders drawn in, as if hoping the earth might fold up and hide her. Words caught in her throat like birds tangled in wire, fluttering but never free. She wasn’t rude—never that. Just careful. As if each syllable might cost too much.
Her days passed softly. She read books with yellowed pages and wrote letters she never sent. Her garden grew wild and beautiful, each flower a secret she could say without speaking. She liked the rain because it kept people indoors, and she could walk the streets alone, umbrella tilted just enough to hide her face and watch the world move without her.
But in the quiet, she was full of color. Her thoughts bloomed like lanterns in a field, each one bright and trembling. She wanted to speak, to laugh loudly in a room, to say “I’m here” without the shame of it. Some days, she would stand in the mirror and practice. And maybe one day, though she didn’t know when, she’d speak a single truth aloud—and someone would answer not with surprise, but with kindness.


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