If Only Trees Could Talk

Chapter 12: Not All Darkness Wants to Hurt You

(A lesson in facing your darkness—and not running from it.)

You didn't mean to find the cave.
You weren't looking for it.
But then again, maybe it was always waiting for you.

The forest had shifted. You could feel it in the way the trees whispered slower, lower. Like something sacred was approaching.
The air turned cold—not biting, but heavy, as if laced with secrets.
And then you saw it.

A crack in the mountainside.
Not wide. Not welcoming.
But deep.
Black.
Breathing.

You paused.

Every instinct told you to walk the other way. To stay in the light. To find another firefly or a patch of sun. Something soft. Something safe.

But something inside you—the same part that listens to rivers and cries during thunderstorms—tugged at your feet.

Because the thing about caves is...
They only look empty.
But they hold echoes.

And maybe you needed to hear yours.

So you entered.

At first, it was quiet.

Not the forest's gentle quiet. This was thicker.
Heavier.
A silence that didn't just surround you—it pressed into you.

You felt the temperature drop as your steps echoed in the dark, each one slower than the last.
The light behind you faded, swallowed by stone.
And still, you walked.

Your hands grazed the walls. Damp. Jagged. Honest.
Like skin that's never been touched with kindness.
You wondered how long this place had existed.
How long it had gone unseen.

Just like the parts of you, you don't let people meet.

It wasn't long before the whispers began.

Not from the cave.
From you.
From the version of you that you buried years ago.

The one who still cries when no one's watching.
The one who overthinks every conversation for three days straight.
The one who wants to be loved without conditions but doesn't know if she deserves that kind of love.

Her voice echoed against the walls.
Soft. Shaky. Familiar.

"Why am I never enough?"
"Why do I always mess things up?"
"Why do they always leave?"
"Why do I let them?"

Your breath hitched.
Not because you were afraid of the cave.

But because you were afraid of your answers.

You sank to the cold ground, arms hugging your knees.
The cave held you—not with warmth, but with truth.

And in that darkness, something strange happened.

You didn't fall apart.

You expected to.

You thought facing your demons would destroy you.
But instead... you heard them.

Not as monsters.
But as memories.

Every cruel word someone threw at you.
Every moment you didn't speak up because you were scared of being "too much."
Every time you apologized just to keep someone from leaving.
Every smile you forced.

They came back—not to haunt you,
but to ask for closure.

They weren't here to hurt you.
They just wanted to be seen.

And for once, you didn't turn away.

The cave didn't judge your sadness.
It didn't flinch at your anxiety.
It didn't tell you to "cheer up" or "get over it."

It just echoed it back to you.
So you could finally hear how much pain you've been carrying.
Alone.

And how strong you've had to be to carry it this long.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Time doesn't move the same in the dark.

Eventually, you stood.
Not taller. Not prouder.
But lighter.

The shadows hadn't swallowed you.
They'd witnessed you.

And that made all the difference.

You started walking again.
Your fingers tracing the cave walls like braille.
Reading the scars in the stone like they were your own.

And then—
There it was.

A pinprick of light.

Not dramatic.
Not heavenly.
Just... there.

You followed it.
One step.
Then another.

And as the light grew, so did something else.
A truth.
A whisper that didn't echo, but hummed from your chest:

"You are not your darkness. But you don't have to run from it either."

You reached the mouth of the cave.

The forest welcomed you back with open air and rustling leaves.

And the sky—
God, the sky.

It had changed while you were gone.
Not brighter. Not clearer.
But wider.
Like it made room for everything you brought back with you.

You turned around one last time, eyes lingering on the entrance.

Not as a threat.
But as proof.

That you went in.
Faced it.
Felt it.
And came out still whole.

Not because the pain disappeared.
But because you stopped pretending it didn't exist.

The cave didn't heal you.
It just gave you permission to be honest.

And sometimes...
That's where real healing begins.

"Go ahead," the wind whispered as it kissed your cheek.
"Be soft. Be honest. Be messy. Be real."

"You survived the cave.
Now go live like you did."

"Not every dark place is dangerous.

Some are just waiting to show you the parts of yourself that light forgot."