The Hundred Word Day
What would you say if every word mattered.
If you only had 100 words a day,
you’d stop saying “fine.”
You’d stop saying “nothing’s wrong.”
You’d stop saying things that fill the space
just because silence scares you.
You’d learn that small talk is expensive.
And that some people never deserved
whole sentences in the first place.
You’d count syllables like currency.
You’d breathe before you spoke.
And god, your voice would feel sacred again.
“I love you” would cost 3.
But if you said it slow—
with your eyes, with your hands,
with the tremble in your lip
when they started to leave—
maybe that would count for more.
Maybe you’d say it once,
just before bed,
and it would echo all night
inside their bones.
Maybe they’d dream in your voice.
If you only had 100 words a day,
you’d start to listen differently.
Not just to people—
but to birds,
and door hinges,
and the way your name sounds
when they say it without flinching.
You’d notice the weight of things.
Not everything that wants to be said
deserves to be spoken.
You’d let some truths sit on your tongue
until they softened.
You’d leave space for mystery.
Let them wonder what you almost said.
Make eye contact that makes them ache.
You’d become unbearable in the best way—
a person people lean into.
And when you finally spoke,
they’d shut up.
Because your words
would taste like gold in a famine.
You’d write more letters.
You’d start them with:
“I don’t want to waste this.”
And end them with:
“Here’s what I saved just for you.”
You’d circle back to old memories
just to reword them better.
Make sure they landed this time.
Make sure the younger you
felt heard.
You’d whisper more.
Whispers feel heavier when they’re rare.
You’d kiss more.
Kissing is what we do
when we run out of things to say.
You’d hum the words you couldn’t afford.
Dance the things you didn’t dare voice.
You’d speak with your eyes.
Your hands.
Your breath.
The way you stayed.
You’d realize how often you used to talk
just to be liked.
To fill the room.
To prove you were smart or worthy
or wanted.
You’d let that version of you die.
Let them talk themselves in circles
while you sit still
and say nothing
but mean everything.
And when someone says,
“Say something…”
you’d pause.
Hold their face.
And use 7 words that ruin them for life:
“No one has ever seen you like this.”
Some people talk in poems.
Not the rhyming kind.
The kind where one line
makes your chest feel too small.
There was one—
a girl, a boy, a voice you barely remember—
who once said they had the first sentence of a novel
and were just waiting for the ending.
They swore their words would outlive them.
Said they wanted to leave something behind
that could breathe
when they couldn’t.
But endings don’t always wait.
And the last thing they ever said
was just one word:
“Wait.”
No one said anything back.
If you only had 100 words a day,
you’d stop saving them for tomorrow.
You don’t know which goodbye will be your last.
And silence never says it quite right.
They wouldn’t just listen.
They’d wait in your silence like it was gospel.
Like your next word might resurrect them.
// Scorpio Veil
If it moved you,
you already know what to do