A.S. Thorne

Some wounds never make it into words.

We bury them deep, under smiles and small talk, under work deadlines and family dinners, under the thousand tiny performances that say, I’m fine.

But silence doesn’t erase them. It preserves them.

The Weight of Silence

There are things I have carried for years without speaking. Not because they weren’t real, but because they were too real. Too jagged. Too ugly. Too likely to make someone else uncomfortable.

And so I swallowed them.
I folded myself small.
I smiled at the right times.

The world praises survival like that. But it doesn’t see the cost, how the body keeps the score, how the heart grows heavy with stories it was never meant to carry alone.

What No One Tells You

Silence feels safe until it becomes a prison.
Secrets feel protective until they begin to rot from the inside.

And the longer you hide what happened, the more it convinces you it has to stay hidden. Shame thrives in the dark.

No one tells you that telling the story isn’t about getting pity or proving something. It’s about reclaiming oxygen. It’s about loosening the grip of what happened so it stops defining every corner of your life.

Why I Write the Buried Things

Dark fantasy is my rebellion against silence.

When I write The Mirror Between Us, I’m not just writing magic and monsters—I’m writing about secrets that whisper through the walls, about mirrors that remember what no one wants to see.

Because fiction gives me permission to drag the unspeakable into the open. To give shape to grief. To let shame dissolve into metaphor. To say the things my real voice still trembles over.

And maybe, when I write them down, someone else feels less alone with the stories they’ve buried too.

A Reminder for You

If you’ve buried something so deep it aches to even glance at it, know this: you don’t have to dig it all up today. You don’t have to put it on display.

But you also don’t have to carry it forever.

One sentence whispered to a friend. One journal page no one else sees. One breath of honesty.

That can be the beginning of unburying.
That can be the start of freedom.

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💭 Your Turn
Ask yourself: What story have I been burying, and what would it feel like to set down even a fragment of it?

Write just one line. That’s enough.

An Invitation to Share

If this resonated with you, I’d be honored if you shared it. You never know who else is carrying a buried story in silence—sometimes your voice is the reminder they needed that they don’t have to carry it alone.

🖤 A.S. Thorne