The Plan She Carried
She did not dream for glory,
nor for a name carved high in stone—
she dreamed in quiet places,
of saving one soul,
and through that, many more.
There was a face in her heart,
a life she could not turn from,
a thread she refused to let break.
So she built something fragile and brave,
stitched from sleepless nights
and hope that would not die.
But the world does not always honour
what is born of love.
They watched her.
They listened.
They waited.
And when her hands were full
with the weight of trying,
they took it—
not with gratitude,
but with silence sharp as theft.
They built her dream without her,
wore it like it had always been theirs,
and called it success.
And the one she meant to save—
where is he now?
Is he still breathing somewhere,
lost between moments that never came?
Or has the silence already taken him,
folded him into the earth
before her work could reach him?
No one answers.
No one asks.
The world moves on
with its borrowed victories,
its hollow applause.
And her—
they turn on her.
As if kindness were a crime,
as if trying were a threat.
They close their doors,
tighten their fists,
strip away her ground
until even standing becomes a fight.
They will not stop.
Not at taking.
Not at breaking.
They will empty her pockets,
dim her light,
push her to the edges
where voices disappear.
And still—
no one asks why.
Why crush what sought to heal?
Why destroy what tried to save?
Why turn so cold
toward a heart that only gave?
Sometimes she wonders
if she is the only one still alive,
or if the rest have already gone—
not in body,
but in spirit.
Because what kind of world
buries the living,
steals from the willing,
and calls it order?
What kind of world
lets love die unanswered?