Run Before Sunriseā¦ part 1
Dior stepped up to the microphone like she had something to prove, but not to the crowdāto herself. The room was dim, lit by warm stage lights and soft candles on the tables. Poetry night was supposed to be open mics, light expression, healing words. Nothing heavy.
She adjusted the mic once, then twice.
Ace noticed her before she even spoke. He wasnāt supposed to be there. Heād just come to clear his head, lay low for a while, maybe hear a few verses and leave. But the moment Dior stepped on stage, something in him shifted. Familiar. Like a memory he couldnāt place but felt in his bones.
Dior exhaled slowly.
āI didnāt write this down,ā she said. āSo if I stopā¦ itās because I had to.ā
A few scattered laughs from the audience softened the tension, but her face stayed serious.
Then she started.
āAt seven, I learned that family donāt always mean safe,ā she said, voice steady but low. āAt nine, I learned that silence is something you survive on. At twelveā¦ I learned how to disappear inside my own body.ā
The room went still.
Even the glasses stopped clinking. No whispers. No movement.
Ace leaned forward slightly, his jaw tightening.
Dior kept going, words coming faster now like she couldnāt hold them in anymore.
āI used to think it was love when somebody told me to keep secrets. I used to think I was chosen. But I was just trapped in a house where nobody heard me scream unless I made it pretty enough to rhyme.ā
A woman in the back covered her mouth. Someone else looked down at their hands.
Diorās voice cracked, but she didnāt stop.
āIām not telling yāall this for pity. Iām telling yāall this because I survived it. And Iām still here. Still breathing. Still learning that what happened to me was never my fault.ā
Aceās expression changedāsomething dark, protective, unsettled. Like he was hearing more than just a poem. Like pieces were clicking into a story he never knew existed.
Dior finally paused, gripping the mic stand now.
āAnd if you ever meet a girl like meā¦ donāt ask her why sheās quiet. Ask her what she had to survive to still be standing in front of you.ā
Silence.
Not awkward silenceāheavy silence. The kind that sits on peopleās shoulders.
Then one clap. Then another. Then the room erupted slowly, careful at first, like they were afraid to break her.
Dior stepped back from the mic, breathing hard, eyes glassy but proud.
Ace didnāt clap right away.
He just stared.
Because now he knewāthis wasnāt just a poem.
This was a wound that learned how to speak.
Ace didnāt let go of her right away.
It wasnāt forceful, not controllingājust steady. Like he was afraid if he released her too quickly, sheād disappear back into whatever space she came from when she was alone.
āIām sorry that happened to you,ā he said again, quieter this time, his voice closer to her ear.
Dior gave a small, nervous laugh as she stepped back just enough to create space between them.
āI donāt need the pity. I am alright. Iāll be okay.ā
Her words came out practiced. Like sheād said them so many times they stopped sounding like truth and started sounding like armor.
Ace studied her face. Not just what she was sayingābut what she wasnāt.
āYou donāt gotta be alright right now,ā he said. āYou just gotta be real.ā
That made her pause.
Because ārealā was more dangerous than āstrong.ā Real meant cracks. Real meant exposure.
Dior looked away, fixing her gaze on the hallway wall like it had answers.
She didnāt tell him everything. Not yet. She never told anyone everything.
About her mother.
About how she didnāt ask questions when Dior tried to tell her what happened.
About how her voice shook in that kitchen the day she said Montrellās name out loud for the first timeāand how her mother didnāt even look at her long enough to believe her.
Instead, she looked tired.
Annoyed.
Like Dior was the problem that disrupted peace.
And Montrell? He stayed family in her motherās eyes.
Protected.
Untouchable.
Dior swallowed hard, pushing the memory back down where it usually lived.
Ace noticed the shift anyway.
āYou still thinking about it,ā he said softly.
āIām not,ā she lied too quickly.
That earned a slight tilt of his head. Not judgmentāunderstanding.
āPeople donāt usually speak on something like that and walk away clean,ā Ace said. āThat stays in you.ā
Dior finally looked at him again, her expression sharper now, defensive.
āYou donāt know what stays in me.ā
Ace nodded once, like he accepted that boundary.
āTrue,ā he said. āBut I know what it looks like when somebody carrying it alone.ā
The hallway behind them buzzed with faint noise from the eventāclapping, laughter, life continuing like nothing heavy had just been spoken into the room.
Dior crossed her arms.
āI just came here to read. Thatās it.ā
Ace stepped slightly to the side, giving her space instead of closing it.
āThen let that be it,ā he said. A pause. āBut donāt make yourself small after speaking your truth in front of all them people.ā
That landed differently.
Diorās jaw tightened, not because she disagreedābut because she wasnāt used to someone noticing the aftermath.
She turned her head slightly.
āI didnāt tell them everything.ā
Ace didnāt respond right away.
He just watched her for a moment, like he understood exactly what that meant.
āYeah,ā he said finally. āI can tell.ā
A beat of silence passed between themāheavier than the room they just left.
And somewhere deep in that quiet, Ace realized something he didnāt say out loud:
This wasnāt just a girl at poetry night.
This was someone still in the middle of her story.
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Attending a poetry night like the one described in 'Run Before Sunrise Part 1' can be profoundly moving. Such events often become safe spaces for people to share their deepest pains and truths, much like Dior's spoken word that night. From my own experience participating in open mic poetry nights, I know how difficult it can be to expose vulnerabilities in front of an audience. The courage required to stand up and share stories of trauma and survival creates a powerful connection between the performer and the listeners. One thing that stands out from this narrative is the importance of being heard and the impact that silence can have. Many survivors carry their pain alone, and events like poetry nights offer an alternative outletāa therapeutic experience allowing healing through expression. It's not just about the words but also the acknowledgment from others, which helps validate personal experiences often ignored or misunderstood. Incorporating themes like family trauma, silence, and survival in poetry adds depth and authenticity that many listeners resonate with. From my time in similar communities, I noticed the careful, often quiet support around pieces that reveal such raw emotions. The silence that follows such performances is telling, filled with empathy and contemplation, before the audience gradually expresses their appreciation. Moreover, the interaction between Dior and Ace reflects the complexities of supporting someone who's in the midst of processing their pain. It highlights the essentials of patience, presence, and the willingness to listen without pressing for more than the survivor is ready to share. These dynamics are crucial for people looking to offer meaningful support without judgment or pity. If you're inspired by stories like this, consider attending or participating in local poetry nights or storytelling events. Not only can you gain insight and empathy for others' experiences, but you may also find your own voice nurtured in the process. The communal aspect of spoken word and poetry can be a transformative journey for many, turning wounds into powerful expressions that inspire healing and connection.
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