In the midst of chaos—when unseen strings of control pulled at everything—you didn’t know there were hidden faces crafting deeper lies about you. But you? You stayed quiet, still, while they ventured into a more twisted deception. They couldn’t be trusted; they were shattered glass pretending they could be whole.

“Will you promise that you wouldn’t tell anybody?”

“I promise.”

The words filled the bubble in my mind, trembling with trust—not bursting yet. But did she? “She will never know,” a voice echoed through streets where knives slept in shadows—and we weren’t aware, not then.

“Hello, friend!” a voice called. Let’s call her Maria—she didn’t know her dove had already flown away, its mission done after seeing the silent threats of knives.

“Hello!” another girl spoke—let’s call her Eva. Beautiful, gentle, someone who looked trustable—but that word stayed locked in a closet thick with spider webs and dust. As they spoke for hours—the bubbles started to puff, quiet but dangerous.

I watched them—two figures stitched by conversation, unaware of the betrayal weaving beneath their steps. The air shifted, the ground hummed, and something between us trembled.

But the knives?

They stayed.

Hidden in pockets,

Behind smiles,

Under the weight of promises.

The bubble grew heavier inside my head, begging to burst but holding on. Eva’s laughter rang like fragile bells; Maria’s voice was soft, but sharp enough to tear. And I stayed the silent observer, the one holding the last thread of truth.

As the day dimmed, the lies curled deeper into the corners. Trust leaked through every cracked voice. And the knives—always the knives—waited, plotting.

Remembering,

Just like I did.

The Frontman