It all begins with discomfort. Maybe it's the constant noise. Maybe it's the endless scroll. Or maybe it's something deeper—something you can’t quite name. Whatever it is, the feeling is real. And it’s pointing you somewhere quieter. Somewhere safer. Somewhere else.

They won’t notice right away. First, you miss a message. Then a call. Then a whole week disappears. You stop reaching. You stop explaining. The noise fades. The pressure lifts. No more performance. No more pretending. This is the part where you vanish, gently, and on your own terms.

Eventually, you forget who you were trying to be. You wake up without an audience. You start to breathe differently. You speak less. You see more. You remember the silence. And in it, something welcomes you. You’ve gone beyond hiding now. You’re part of something permanent.