by Brandon Michael
A story for anyone who never fit in,
and always knew why.
Once upon a time,
though it didn’t feel like time,
there was a child who was born
already remembering.
She didn’t cry like the others.
Instead, her first breath trembled
with a strange silence, like she had expected…
more.
Not more comfort, not more sound,
more realness.
As if she’d just fallen from somewhere sacred
and landed in a place that hadn’t
remembered itself, yet.
She grew up watching everything.
The way adults moved like they’d forgotten
they were alive.
The way teachers spoke with words that felt
too small for the truths she held.
The way other kids laughed about things
she couldn’t find funny,
not because she was sad, but because
she could feel the edges of the
invisible strings
pulling them.
And always, there was the sky.
She’d stare up at it for hours,
convinced it was saying something.
Not speaking words but echoing a memory
she couldn’t quite translate.
At night, she’d whisper to it.
Not for answers.
Just to not forget.
When she was older,
she tried to become like everyone else.
She got good at pretending.
Smiling when she wanted to scream.
Agreeing when she wanted to shake them awake.
Laughing so they wouldn’t ask why she wasn’t.
But inside?
Inside, she was still staring at the sky.
She started writing.
Drawing.
Dreaming.
And in the quiet of those moments,
something miraculous happened:
She remembered
that she wasn’t alone.
There were others.
Scattered like stars across the world.
Each born with the same ache.
Each told they were too sensitive,
too intense, too weird,
too much.
But really?
They were too real for a world
running on masks.
One day, the child now grown,
met another like her.
And they didn’t say much at first.
They didn’t have to.
Because in the stillness between their breath,
they both recognized it:
The sky was alive inside them.
The memory wasn’t a fantasy.
They hadn’t been broken.
They had been sent.
Now they speak to others.
Not loudly.
Not with pride.
But with the quiet strength
of those who have nothing left
to prove.
They build things.
Write truths.
Make art that cracks open old lies.
Not to show off…
But to remember out loud
so others can feel it too.
So if you’re reading this,
and something inside you aches
like it’s waiting for something that hasn’t
happened yet…
It’s not because you’re lost.
It’s because you remember a place
where the sky sang back…
and you’re still carrying
its song.
Not everyone will understand you.
That’s okay.
You weren’t meant for everyone.
You were meant for the ones still looking up…
waiting for someone like you
to remind them:
They are not crazy.
They are not broken.
They are home.
Let the children who remember, finally be seen.