I stood by the pool at dawn thinking: ‘Did someone actually pay for this?’ Nah. I traded my dopamine hits for breath.

They called me ‘Youlina’—but I’m just the girl who cried while making tea from old tapes.

No likes. No comments. Just silence… and one tear under moonlight.

You’re not alone if you heard this too.

What does your silence look like? Comment below—I’ll bring cookies.

So you’re telling me the light doesn’t hit your shoulder—it whispers it? And we all thought beauty had to be loud… until I realized my mom’s tea leaves were the only algorithm that worked. I didn’t chase virality—I just cried without apology while listening to 1997 Mixtape #42. If you’re not alone in feeling this way… are you also secretly rewatching your childhood like a lost heirloom? (P.S.—I left my bra on the windowsill too.) What does your silence taste like? Tea? Dust? Regret?

[Image: A woman staring at dawn through pink glass while tea steams like unedited memories]

So you’re telling me the cherry blossom didn’t drop—it just whispered its exit? 🫷 I’ve been crying into my third cup of tea since Tuesday and now I’m convinced this isn’t art… it’s therapy.

I didn’t photograph beauty—I photographed the silence between breaths.

My therapist said ‘just sit still’—but my camera’s got more emotional density than my ex’s Instagram.

You don’t need to like it to feel it.

You just need to be alone enough to hear it breathe.

(Also—my mom’s smile? Still flickering on a window in Bristol. I miss her.)

Comments? What does your silence look like? Drop a GIF if you cried too.