Ivy Mae didn’t understand it at first—the idea of carrying something invisible.
So her aunt explained it differently.
“Imagine walking into a room,” she said, “and before anyone speaks, you already feel everything that’s wrong.”
“The trains were like that. Every day.” 🚆
There were moments when her body reacted before thought could arrive.
A shift. A glance. That quiet sense of being watched. 👀
“You don’t ignore it,” her aunt said. “Even if no one else sees it.”
By the time she reached the other side of the journey, she wasn’t just tired.
She was emptied out.
“But the day didn’t stop there,” her aunt continued. “I still had to work. Be useful. Be okay.”
Ivy Mae frowned slightly. “Did anyone know?”
Her aunt looked away.
“I tried to tell someone once.”
“What did they say?”
“They tried to fix it,” she said quietly. “Or explain it away.”
A pause.
Ivy Mae tilted her head. “But that’s not what you needed.”
Her aunt shook her head.
“No,” she said softly. “I just needed someone to say… ‘I hear you.’” 💔
That night, Ivy Mae stayed very still.
Because something had shifted.
Understanding, but not comfort.
Clarity, but not ease.
Some things were not heavy because they were loud.
They were heavy because no one helped carry them. 🤍
And Ivy Mae realized—
that this, too, was a kind of system.
One no one had named.
But everyone had lived inside.