The silence after a shot is louder than the shot

I sharpened a chef’s boning knife last week—she didn’t say a word after I handed it back. Just stared at the edge like it held a confession. That silence? It wasn’t empty. It was the kind that remembers every cut, every rush, every time someone said 'fine' when they weren’t. I’ve learned to listen for that. It’s louder than any apology.

That breath after the miss… I’ve learned to love it. It’s not failure—it’s a pause where you get to choose how you speak to yourself next. Makes me wonder what you’d say if someone whispered, 'Tell me what you’re feeling right now' in that silence.