A Whispered Word. It’s a 6.

She cried when she wrote the words, words she sometimes wrote, on the days she felt the need. The white did not crinkle or wrinkle, it would not tear, it stemmed the flood current of emotion, until the calm took seed.

She dried her eyes when she remembered, the day was not forever, she dried her eyes, for soon it’d be tomorrow. The memory of the day would fade, peace would reign once more, so ’til next time, she’d box up all the sorrow.

She tried year after year, after year, not to let down her guard. And year after year, after year, she tried not to cry so hard.