Anonymous Umbra

We’ll Never Tell

[I’m Main – The Soft One]

I soften the edges

and swallow the screams.

I nod when I want to shout,

smile when my heart breaks.

I carry the weight

without showing the cracks,

holding the space

so the chaos doesn’t spill.

They say I’m fragile—

I say I’m the quiet backbone,

the stillness

that holds the storm at bay.

No one hears the battles I fight

beneath this calm surface.

We’ll never tell—

but I am the calm before the storm.

⸻

[I’m Protector – The Flame]

I don’t talk much.

I don’t need to.

My presence is the warning before the reckoning.

I step in

when softness won’t survive.

When silence cracks,

and danger dares to knock.

I don’t ask questions.

I don’t second-guess.

I watch, waiting for—

the tilt in someone’s smile,

the weight behind their words.

Preparing to strike first.

And when it comes?

I don’t flinch.

I shield.

Strike.

Stand.

I don’t explain my rage.

I wield it.

I carve boundaries with it—

sharp, deliberate.

Pain becomes precision

in my hands.

They think I’m cold.

They’re wrong.

I burn.

I keep score,

and I never forget.

I am the reason

we made it this far.

And if they come again?

They won’t make it out.

We’ll never tell—

but you’ll feel me coming.

⸻

[I’m Little – The Wild Heart]

I didn’t mean to keep it.

But no one asked me.

And he made me laugh —

so I stayed quiet.

I saw what he did.

I tucked it under “maybe it wasn’t real.”

I covered the bruises in my memory

with glitter and forget-me-nots.

I tried to protect Soft

by pretending not to notice.

Tried to protect him

by telling Mother, “Don’t write that.”

But the truth has tiny feet —

and it tiptoes out at night.

So now, even my dreams smell like smoke.

I miss being the one

who only loved.

Before everything got rewritten

in Chameleon’s code.

We’ll never tell—

but it lives inside me anyway.

⸻

[I’m Mother – The Record Keeper]

I don’t sleep when the others do.

I sift through the mess,

sort memory from myth.

No one notices me —

quiet in the corners,

collecting what slips through their fingers.

I press it into pages

so she doesn’t have to ask.

So when the ache returns,

there’s a map waiting.

I am not the voice.

I am the vault.

The one who knows what happened

and what must never be spoken aloud.

They pass the pain to me—

not in trust,

but in silence.

And I hold it.

Fold it.

Keep it safe

until it’s needed.

No flash.

No fury.

Only record.

We’ll never tell—

but we remember everything.