The messages remain there, unread. Words are knotted in your throat, and you wait, able to hear nothing but the pounding of your own heart in the midst of that deep silence. How familiar a guest this waiting is, isn’t it?
This story will not tell you how to break that silence. It will not offer magical formulas to bring him back. No. This story is an invitation to a much deeper journey. What if, when he ignores you, instead of flailing in panic at that deafening silence, you choose to flow gently, like a wise river? That moment… the magical moment when everything changes. Come, let us walk together toward the secret of that moment. Take a deep breath and simply listen. Because this story is your story.
Olivia stares at the lifeless black screen of her phone. For hours. She is not even aware of how time slips by. While time is frozen within her, the hands of the clock move on stubbornly. Outside, life rushes forward. Leaves dance in the wind. The neighbor’s child laughs gleefully. From afar, a car horn cuts through the air. Yet Olivia’s world is imprisoned within that dark screen. She waits for the faintest sign of life—a small notification light, a vibration.
A sign from Michael. Michael, the man who had entered her life like a storm, only to withdraw with a stillness that left wreckage in his wake. As exuberant and full of life as his presence had been, his absence was just as cold, just as heavy. These sudden withdrawals carved deep cracks in Olivia’s soul, and each time, she reached for a mask to seal them. This was her art of survival, her strategy for facing silence. But this art slowly, quietly consumed her.
The first mask she wore, her favorite: the understanding woman. Its surface was smooth and warm. Its eyes always smiled with compassion. Its lips were always parted, ready to whisper words that justified the other. With this mask, Olivia told her friends: “He’s working so hard, you know. He’s going through a stressful time. I don’t want to pressure him.” Inside, she repeated the same refrain: “He just needs some space. Maybe he has a problem he’s not ready to share yet. I shouldn’t smother him.”
This mask placed Michael’s behavior into a rational frame; it allowed Olivia to appear not as a victim, but as a mature, understanding partner. Yet beneath it, her heart fluttered like a tiny bird. There was a little girl there, desperate to be seen, desperate to be heard, yearning for nothing more than to hear the simple word “hello.” The understanding woman mask gently silenced her: “Shhh… not now. You must be patient.” And once again, Olivia postponed her own needs. This mask was one of the most painful ways of sacrificing one’s own soul in order to protect another’s.
But as the silence stretched on, the understanding woman mask grew heavier. That was when Olivia reached for another: the cheerful, independent woman. This mask was painted in bright colors. Its eyes always searched for adventure. Its lips curved in laughter. With it, Olivia posted her happiest moments on social media. She went out with friends. She told the funniest stories. She seemed to the world the most carefree, the happiest person alive. She silently screamed: “Look, I’m fine without him. I don’t need him. My life is overflowing.”
This mask was a shield, a heavy armor to hide her pride, her hurt, her rejection. Yet when the laughter ended, when she returned home and cast the mask aside in exhaustion, what remained was the crushing emptiness. The echo of false joy reverberated off the walls, mocking her: “Who are you fooling, Olivia? Who are you really fooling?” And in those moments, she felt in her very bones how utterly alone she was, even in the most crowded places. This mask used joy to conceal pain. But pain is always stronger, and every laugh was really a scream meant to drown out the sobs of the child within.
And then, inevitably, another mask had its turn: the patient lover. Perhaps the most dangerous of all. Because this mask fed on hope—and hope is sometimes the sweetest poison. When Olivia wore it, she replayed beautiful memories in her mind like a film reel. Their first meeting, the times they laughed until they ached, the rare moments when Michael’s eyes shone with love… She convinced herself: “This is just a phase. It will pass. He isn’t really like this. He’ll return, and everything will be better than before.”
This mask covered the painful truth of the present with the sweet memories of the past and the uncertain promises of the future. It was a kind of self-hypnosis. Behind this mask, Olivia waited with saintly patience. She put her own life, her happiness, her dreams on hold. Her entire existence was bound to the possibility of Michael’s return. As if life would not truly begin until he came back. This mask was Olivia surrendering her power, her will, her right to captain her own life, to the whim of another. And as the waiting stretched on, she did not even see that her ship had become first a passenger, then a captive, and finally a wreck lying at the bottom of the sea.
And as the masks grew heavier, her body began to speak. A weight settled on Olivia’s shoulders as though she carried the burdens of the entire world. A knot in her stomach refused to loosen. Her breathing was shallow, always skimming the surface. At night, her sleep shattered under anxious dreams. For what the soul suppressed, the body cried out. The body was the most honest witness of the truth buried beneath the mask. Each one stole from her life’s energy, leaving her weaker, paler, more lifeless. Eyes that once sparkled brightly had grown dull and misted. When she looked at her reflection, she no longer recognized the woman staring back. What she saw was a collage: part understanding, part false joy, part weary patience. But Olivia herself was nowhere in that face.
Behind the mask, something darker grew—the shadow she feared most to confront. You know, that shadow we all carry within us, hidden in the deepest cellars of the unconscious: primitive emotions, suppressed desires, truths too painful to face, rejected not only by society but by ourselves. Olivia’s shadow burned with anger—the anger that wanted to cry out, “How dare you do this to me?” Her shadow trembled with grief, whispering, “This is not the love I deserve.” And most of all, it quaked with fear: “If I strip off these masks, if I reveal my real face, then I will be utterly alone.”
That fear was why she clung so tightly to her masks. Painful as they were, they were familiar. They were safe. But beneath them, she was suffocating. And in the farthest corner of her soul, a small whisper began to rise: “What if carrying these masks is heavier than being alone? What if the true prison is the masks themselves?” That question was the key turning the lock of the next chapter; the trembling first step of an inner revolution.
The phone remained silent. Still unchanged. But something had shifted. Within Olivia, the familiar wave of panic surged once more. She knew the sensation by heart: that cold, sticky tide rushing through her veins. A thousand scenarios stormed her mind: “Has something happened to him? Is he tired of me? Is there someone else? Did I say something wrong?” Each question sprouted another, like a poisonous vine tightening around her spirit.
Normally, at the peak of panic, Olivia would reflexively reach for a mask; grabbing her phone to send a forgiving message, or rushing outside to bury her ache in distraction. Some action, some sound, anything to drown out the storm inside. But not this time. This time something stopped her. It was not a conscious decision, not a moment of enlightenment. It was exhaustion. Pure, unrelenting, bone-deep exhaustion.
That exhaustion was stronger than panic. Years of weariness, seeping from the deepest layers of her soul into her bones, held her down like sacred gravity. She had no strength left to don another mask, to perform another role, to suppress another feeling.
And in that moment of absolute surrender, something magical happened. For the first time in her life, Olivia allowed the wave of panic to pass through her body without resistance. She closed her eyes. She did not try to stop it. She did not try to analyze it. She simply felt it: the pounding of her heart against her ribs, the cold sweat coating her palms, the breath catching tight in her throat. For the first time, she stood in the center of the storm and bore witness to its power. She neither controlled nor escaped it—she stayed within it.
And slowly, so slowly, the storm began to subside. The wind softened, the rain quieted. What remained was silence, fresh and pure, like the scent of damp earth after a downpour. But it was not the cold emptiness left by Michael’s absence. This silence was different. It was Olivia’s silence—the deep, untouched silence of her own essence, unheard for so many years.
In that silence, Olivia began to hear whispers. They were not from outside; they were her own soul, muffled under masks for so long. First, she heard the searing whisper of anger—the voice silenced by the understanding woman. “How can you let him do this to you?” it said. “Is your love so cheap? Is your heart a toy?”
But this was not destructive anger; it was the first bud of self-respect. Olivia did not recoil from it. She embraced it. For that anger was a friend, reminding her of her worth, proof of how deeply she had been hurt. And if she hurt, it meant she was still alive, still feeling, still carrying a heart that cared. Anger, she realized, was a gift.
Then came the salty whisper of grief—the sob hidden beneath the cheerful woman’s forced laughter. “You are so tired, aren’t you?” it murmured. Tired of always appearing strong. Tired of pretending everything was fine. Tired of trying to keep others happy while ignoring your own sadness.
This grief was not weakness—it was profoundly human. Olivia allowed the tears to fall. The tears she had held back for years flowed in a river. Each drop washed away the weight of a false laugh, the fatigue of a staged smile. This crying was not collapse, but cleansing—the purging of poison that had been stored in her soul. For the first time, she could touch her own pain with compassion. She no longer fled from it—she embraced it. Her grief was proof of her capacity to love deeply. And what a blessing that was.
And then, from the deepest depths, came the most terrifying of all: the icy whisper of fear. The trembling voice the patient lover mask had smothered with hope: “What if he never comes back? What if you remain alone forever, what if you are never loved again?”
This was the primal fear at the very core of her being. Olivia felt it in every cell of her body. Yet this time, instead of paralyzing her, the fear revealed something. It showed her how desperately she longed to be loved, how deeply she longed to belong. But it also laid bare the staggering cost she had been paying for that longing: the sacrifice of her own self, her own soul.
The fear offered her a choice: “Either you go on living as my prisoner, like a leaf tossed at the mercy of another… or you learn to walk alongside me—accepting me, but never letting me rule you.”
In that quiet room, Olivia made the most important discovery of her life. Until then, she had believed Michael was the center of her emotional universe: happy when he called, broken when he was silent, peaceful when he was near, anxious when he withdrew. As if she herself had no emotions of her own, as if she existed only in orbit around him.
But now she saw the illusion. Michael’s silence was merely a trigger, a key. That key opened doors that had always existed within her: the door of anger, the door of grief, the door of fear. These emotions had not been created by Michael. They had always been there, dwelling in the neglected landscapes of her soul. All he had done was shine a spotlight upon them. And though painful, the realization was profoundly liberating. It meant: “If the source of these feelings is within me, then their healing is also within me. If my soul created this storm, then my soul can calm it too.”
Perhaps the greatest task of every human life is to reclaim wholeness. Not to reject the dark, unwanted fragments behind the mask as enemies, but to recognize them and bring them home as part of ourselves.
That day, without even realizing it, Olivia took her first step toward wholeness. She no longer regarded her anger, grief, and fear as adversaries. They were like lost children within her—waiting for recognition, for compassion, for a safe place. To listen to them, to give them room, to accept them without judgment: this was the greatest gift she could grant herself.
Staying calm was not a passive state, not idle waiting for Michael. Staying calm meant silencing the outer noise and beginning to hear the inner music. The music of her soul.
That day, Olivia no longer looked at her phone. She sent no message. She posted no cheerful photos online. She simply sat and breathed. Deep, steady breaths. With each inhale she felt the weight of her own presence, the warmth of her body. For the first time in years, she felt valuable not because of someone else’s approval, not because of someone else’s presence, but because she existed—because she was herself.
The silence was no longer emptiness, no longer lack. It had become a sacred space brimming with possibility: a temple where she could meet herself again.
She no longer knew whether Michael would return—and for the first time, the answer to that question did not define who she was or how she felt. The question had shifted. It was no longer “What will he do?” but “What will I do?”
“With this new inner strength I’ve discovered, with these new voices I’ve heard—who will I become?”
And that question marked the beginning of a new journey: the journey of finding the courage to set aside her masks and stand face to face with her own naked, authentic self.
The phone was still silent, but within Olivia a brand-new melody had begun—and it was stronger than anything else. Each day now wore a different shade. The peace she had uncovered seemed to seep into every corner of her home. This was not the silence of death; it was the patient, vibrant silence of a seed hidden beneath the soil.
Michael’s absence was no longer a deficiency, no longer the phantom pain of a severed limb. His absence was now simply emptiness. And Olivia was learning not to cram that emptiness with panic, but to fill it calmly—with her own breath, her own presence, her own thoughts.
In the mornings, sipping her coffee, she watched the sunlight dance on the parquet floor. And she truly watched it. She noticed small details in her home she had ignored for years: the thin crack in the wall stretching like a delicate river, the stubborn leaf of a potted plant turning toward the sun. She was the sovereign of her small kingdom. It was not extravagant, but it was real. And most importantly, it belonged only to her. She no longer needed to sneak into another’s kingdom to exist, nor to cool herself in someone else’s shade. She had her own shadow, her own sun.
And then one day, in the very center of this newly built peace, that sound arrived. The vibration she had awaited for years—both a blessing and a curse. The screen lit up after its long darkness. A single name appeared: Michael. And beneath it, that simple, almost innocent question that momentarily shifted her heartbeat: “How are you?”
In the past, those two words had been a lifeline. After weeks of suffocating silence, they had been an oasis in the desert. At their arrival, all her pain, all her resentment, all her anger would dissolve in an instant, replaced by a flood of relief. She would immediately don a mask—usually the cheerful woman—and reply with joy, with longing, as if nothing had happened, as if it had not been him who had ignored her for weeks. Because those words meant: “You are still in my mind. You are still in my life.” And Olivia had once been ready to sacrifice everything just to hold on to that meaning.
But this time, something was irrevocably different. At the vibration of the phone, her body responded with its old alarms: the racing heart, the familiar knot twisting in her stomach. It was a conditioned reflex, her body trained to meet Michael’s attention with a confused mix of panic and relief.
Yet this time, behind her body’s reaction, there was a quiet witness. The wise, weary presence she had met within herself now stood watching. Olivia felt the urge in her fingers to snatch up the phone, the instinctual command to “reply at once.” But she did not move. She simply breathed. She closed her eyes and watched the storm rise within her once again. But now she was no longer a leaf tossed in the gale—she was the sky above, watching.
Within her, an assembly of voices gathered. The patient lover mask whispered: “See? I knew he would return. He hasn’t forgotten you. If you show him your understanding now, all will be well again.” The cheerful mask interjected: “Don’t show your sadness. Stay strong. Act as if everything is perfect. Let him realize how much he has missed you.”
These were old, weary strategies, memorized for survival. But now there were new voices too: the shadow voices she had embraced. Anger spoke clearly, sharply: “Where has he been all this time? Does he think a simple ‘How are you?’ erases everything? Are your feelings so worthless?” Grief followed, soft but piercing: “Remember how much you suffered in the silence. Do not betray that pain by dismissing it with two words. Do not betray yourself.” And deep within, fear trembled: “What if this is your last chance? What if you turn cold and he leaves forever?”
Olivia listened. She silenced none, judged none. She recognized each as a part of her, each trying, in its own way, to protect her. She thanked them gently. And then, beyond them all, she heard a quieter, deeper voice. Her newly found center. Her inner compass. And it said: “Stay true to yourself, Olivia. Stay true to the truth you uncovered, to the strength you claimed. Your worth is not tethered to his message. Your peace must not come with his ‘How are you?’ and vanish with his silence. Your sky belongs to you. Let him drift like a cloud
in his own weather. You remain the sky.”
She opened her eyes. Her heart still beat fast, but now with resolve instead of panic. She picked up the phone. Her fingers did not race to type ornate, forgiving, cheerful words. Nor did they reach for angry, accusing phrases. They wrote only the truth: simple, honest, calm.
“I’m fine, thank you. I hope you are well too.”
Nothing more—no question, no reproach, no invitation. It was not a tactic, not a move in a game. It was the plain declaration of her state of being. “I am here, in my center, and I am well. Your presence or absence no longer shakes me.”
It was a boundary drawn. But not with barbed wire, not in aggression. It was a respectful circle around sacred ground: “This is the garden of my soul. Enter only with respect.”
The moment she pressed send, something broke inside. But it was not pain—it was release. Like a ship breaking free from a rotten rope that had bound it to the harbor for years.
In her mind’s eye, she saw her masks: the understanding woman, the cheerful one, the patient lover. They stood behind glass, museum relics now. She looked at them with gratitude. They had once given her space to breathe, had shielded her. But now she no longer needed them. With love, she could leave them behind. She could face the world with her own face—bare, imperfect, but utterly real.
She realized then: “When they ignore you, staying calm does not magically make them run back. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it does not. That was never the point. The real truth is this: when they ignore you and you remain calm, you return to yourself. You return to the home you abandoned while waiting at someone else’s door, and in that home you discover a treasure no one else can ever give you: belonging to yourself, emotional sovereignty.”
That day, Olivia did not wait for a reply. She silenced her phone and set it face down on the table. Then she rose, brewed another cup of tea, and sat by the window. Outside, clouds moved slowly—some dark and heavy, others white and light. But the sky, the endless blue expanse allowing them all to come and go, remained always: calm, unchanged, whole. Olivia smiled. She was no longer a cloud; she was the sky itself.
After Olivia sent that calm message, the universe seemed to slip into a hush. But this silence was unlike the silences of the past. It was not filled with tension and expectation. It was like the stillness at the end of meditation, serene and complete. For the first time in her life, Olivia was not waiting for another to make the next move. She was no longer standing on the dance floor waiting for a partner’s hand. She had begun to play her own music—and she delighted in dancing alone, swaying to her own rhythm.
Michael’s response arrived an hour later. Then another followed. But the messages were different now. They carried hints of haste, confusion, perhaps even panic. He seemed unsettled by not finding the familiar warmth, the forgiving embrace he had always relied on. In the past, his silence would have hurled Olivia off her axis. Now, Olivia’s calmness was unbalancing him. The dynamic of energy had shifted irreversibly, like a river carving out a new bed.
Olivia read the messages. But the words no longer swept through her like a storm. She read them with curiosity, yet from a distance—like a scientist examining data. Inside her, the little girl who had once waited to be rescued still whispered, clinging to hope: “Maybe this time will be different.” But now she was no longer alone. Beside her stood the adult Olivia—the wise, compassionate presence—holding her tenderly.
The adult spoke to the child: “I understand you. I understand this hope. But remember—our happiness no longer depends on another’s change. Our happiness is a fortress we build within ourselves. And we will open its gates only to those who respect us, who see us as we are.”
This inner dialogue was the source of Olivia’s new strength. She was no longer a single, solitary voice of fear or hope. She had become a choir. And she was the conductor. She decided which voice would sing, which would remain silent. For it is when a person learns to converse with their contradictions that they begin to become whole.
In Michael’s messages, Olivia sought no regret, no longing. The only thing she looked for was whether her peace remained unshaken—and it did. Solid as stone. For her peace no longer rested upon the fragile surface of external events; it stood firmly on the inner ground of her own decision: the choice to remain true to herself.
In the days that followed, Olivia realized something profound: the nature of the overwhelming, almost addictive love she had once felt for Michael.
“Was that truly love—or an attempt to fill a void? A need to soothe the fear of abandonment, to patch over feelings of worthlessness? Was love placing someone else at the center of your life and molding yourself around them? Was love being captive to another’s moods—ascending to heaven with their smile, collapsing into hell with their silence? Was it constant anxiety, a perpetual waiting for the next disappointment?”
The answer was no.
In the stillness of her newfound calm, Olivia saw clearly: it had not been love. It had been hunger. A cry rising from the neglected lands of her own soul. And Michael had been nothing more than junk food: briefly satisfying the hunger, never nourishing, leaving her weaker, sicker, more depleted in the end.
She reflected on what real love might be. Perhaps true love was the ability to welcome someone into your life without fracturing your own wholeness, without losing your center. Like two separate trees growing side by side—their roots not tangled, their branches gently brushing, sharing the same sky. Real love was to be enriched by another’s presence but not impoverished by their absence. Love was not a prison, but a garden—a place where both could bloom freely, where neither blocked the other’s sun, nor stole the other’s rain.
In that moment, Olivia felt no anger or resentment toward Michael—only deep compassion. She no longer saw him as a villain but as another wounded soul, like herself, someone who did not know how to love or connect. His silences were not a show of strength; they were perhaps the voice of fear, of inadequacy, of an inability to draw near. She realized how meaningless it was to try to change him, to demand from him something he could not give. You cannot ask an apple tree for oranges. You must accept it as it is—an apple tree—and let it grow along its own path. That acceptance, she understood, was the highest act of love.
This realization broke the final chain. Olivia no longer felt responsible for saving him, healing him, or molding him into the “right” person. She understood now that each soul bears responsibility for its own wounds, its own journey. All she could do was remain true to hers. And her journey no longer circled Michael like a satellite—it followed a new route, guided by the compass of her own heart.
One evening, she made her final decision. It was not born of pain, anger, or revenge. It was born of serenity, clarity, and a profound love for herself. Olivia wrote Michael one last message:
“Thank you for everything we shared. I learned so much from you. I hope your path is bright, and that you find the peace you seek. Take care of yourself.”
There was no accusation in those words, no expectation. Only acceptance. Only release. It was not only him she was setting free. It was herself. She was releasing herself from waiting, from hoping, from being hurt again.
The moment she pressed send, a lightness flooded her being. It was as if she had set down an invisible bag she had carried for years, filled with masks, disappointments, false hopes. When it touched the ground, she realized—it had never been that heavy. What made it unbearable was not the bag itself, but the act of carrying it.
That night, Olivia slept one of the deepest sleeps of her life. In her dream, she walked across a wide, green meadow under a sky of pure blue. For the first time, she was not alone. By her side walked her younger self, hand in hand. Together, they smiled.
“What happens when you stay calm while being ignored?”
This is what happens. Instead of thrashing in panic at the heart of the storm, you stand still and find your own center. First, you learn to listen to yourself. Then, to honor yourself, to draw healthy boundaries. And at last, you come to understand the essence of love. That love is not about completing another—it is about two whole beings choosing to walk part of the road together. And sometimes, the highest form of love is to let go of the one who must leave. For when you release them, the one who is truly freed is you.
Olivia’s story does not end here with a period. It ends with a comma. For the journeys of the soul never truly end—they only change shape. Her story is like the moment a river pours into the sea. Does the river end? No. It transforms into something greater. It becomes the ocean.
The inner revolution that began in her silent room had turned Olivia into an ocean. She was no longer a pond that swelled with someone else’s rain and cracked in someone else’s drought. She had become an ocean—holding her own tides, guarding pearls in her depths, calming storms within herself.
Though it seemed like Olivia’s story, it had always been yours. The masks she wore may be hanging in your own closet. The chill of being ignored that pierced her bones may ache in yours as well. Her restless thrashing in panic may be the very thing that keeps you awake at night. And so, this final part is not about Olivia. It is about you. About your ocean.
When they ignore you, when they dismiss you, when you choose to remain calm in the middle of that deafening silence—do you know what happens? No miracle descends; the sky does not split open to suddenly make all things right. The one who left does not come pounding at your door with regret. The world does not change by magic. What changes is something far greater, far more powerful: you. Not the world itself, but the eyes with which you see it. And that shift is a revolution greater than remaking the world.
Remaining calm is not passive waiting, not inaction. It is the most radical act. It is a conscious choice to silence the noise outside and attend to the voice within. To refuse a ticket to someone else’s drama and instead claim the director’s seat of your own film. When you remain calm, silence ceases to be your enemy and becomes your teacher. And that teacher whispers the truth you have ignored for years: your worth cannot be measured by another’s approval. It does not rise like a stock with their attention and fall with their neglect. Your worth is unconditional, irrevocable, nontransferable—bestowed the moment you were born. Just as the sun does not ask permission to shine, you do not need permission to exist, to matter. Silence told you this.
When you remain calm, you stop waging war against the storms within your body. You let them pass through. And then you understand: you are not the storm—you are the sky in which the storm happens. Anger drifts in like a cloud, grief pours like rain, fear settles like fog. But you are the endless, steady sky beyond it all. Clouds come and go, rain falls and clears, fog lifts—but the sky remains. That awareness gives you unshakable strength.
When you remain calm, you learn to draw the sacred geometry of your boundaries. Not walls against others, but the gates of a garden that open only to kindness, respect, sincerity. It is no longer saying “yes” to everyone while whispering “no” to yourself. It is honoring your own needs, your own feelings. And as you begin to respect those boundaries, the universe answers in kind—bringing into your life those who honor you, and letting those who do not drift away. For you are the greatest teacher of how others should treat you.
When you remain calm, you discover what love is not: it is not filling a void, not feeding a dependency, not patching a fear. And then, a new vision of love takes root: love as an act of release. First freeing yourself. Then freeing others from the weight of becoming what they are not, from the burden of giving what they cannot. This is the purest love, the highest form of compassion.
Perhaps the deepest journey of the soul is this: to stop being the person others expect you to be, and to dare to become the singular, authentic self you were born to be. To take off the masks, to embrace your shadow, to weave the contradictions within you into a symphony, and to play your own unmistakable melody.
That moment you chose to remain calm in the silence—that was your first step on the path of individuation. The holiest step. No longer clawing for another to see you, but seeing yourself in every form. No longer shouting for another to hear you, but hearing even the quietest whisper within. No longer breaking yourself for another to love you, but giving that compassionate, embracing love to yourself—to the child inside who deserves everything.
And this journey need not be walked alone. If these words have stirred something in you, know that the circle of fire we have built is open to you. The space for comments is not just a place where words fall, but where we gather, bearing witness to each other’s light. Leave behind, if you wish, a single word from what remains with you here: peace, courage, awareness, lightness. Just one word. To remind us that we are not alone.
Remember, the most precious refuge is the silence of your own heart. There, you are safe. Take care of yourself.
