Megan Stroup
Stories (17)
Filter by community
What We Carry Without Saying
There is a particular weight to the things we don’t talk about. Not heavy enough to crush us outright, but constant enough to change the way we stand, the way we move through rooms, the way we pause before answering simple questions.
By Megan Stroup7 days ago in Confessions
The Long Way Home
“You don’t have to stay,” she says again. I nod, again. “I know.” We’ve been having this conversation in fragments for the last hour. It keeps restarting, like neither of us quite trusts the ending. People move around us with paper plates and careful voices. Someone laughs too loudly near the doorway and immediately apologizes to no one in particular. Grief makes everyone clumsy.
By Megan Stroup7 days ago in Journal
Borrowing Quiet. AI-Generated.
No arguments. No announcements. No catastrophe to point to and say, that’s why I feel like this. Just the low, steady sound of the refrigerator cycling on and off, as if it has taken on the responsibility of breathing for the room. It does this whether I am paying attention or not. It does this whether I am okay.
By Megan Stroup14 days ago in Journal
The War Doesn’t End When the Sirens Stop
The first time the air raid siren woke me, I didn’t recognize the sound. It wasn’t the sharp, electronic wail I’d heard in movies or news clips. It was deeper, rougher, like a voice screaming through a rusted megaphone. My body knew before my mind did. I was on the floor, hands over my head, before I even remembered I was supposed to be afraid.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Serve
When the News Moves On, the Silence Stays
The first thing you notice is the quiet. Not the peaceful kind, the kind that hums with absence. The kind that settles over a street where, just months ago, the air was thick with shouts and sirens and the relentless whir of helicopters circling overhead. Now, there’s only the occasional car rolling over cracked pavement, the distant bark of a dog, the rustle of plastic bags caught in the skeletal branches of a dead tree.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Humans
No One Explained My Rights
The first thing I remember is how fast everything moved. Not physically—no one rushed me—but procedurally. Words were spoken in a sequence that felt practiced, like steps on a staircase I hadn’t been warned I’d need to climb. I kept waiting for someone to pause. To check in. To say, Here’s what this means.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Humans
What Happens When Force Becomes Routine
It rarely starts with a blow. It starts with a tone. A command delivered too fast. A moment where compliance is assumed before it’s possible. The room tightens. The choices narrow. And then, suddenly, force is framed as necessary. After that, the details blur.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Criminal
The Names That Never Leave the Building
The building doesn’t change when someone dies inside it. The doors still buzz open. The lights still hum. Paperwork moves from one desk to another with the same quiet urgency it always has. From the outside, it looks like another day of operations—another shift, another schedule, another count.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Criminal
They Weren’t Listening for Answers
The questions came quickly. Too quickly. Each one was delivered with a practiced rhythm, the kind that doesn’t leave much space between sentences. I answered as best I could, watching the pen move across the page, the cursor blink on the screen. There was no interruption, no sign of impatience. Just motion.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Humans
Nothing Happened, and That’s the Problem
Nothing happened that day. At least, nothing that would make a report sound urgent. There was no shouting. No alarms. No visible mistake. The building stayed open. The phones were answered. The process moved forward exactly as designed.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Humans
I Didn’t Know I Was Allowed to Say No
No one raised their voice. No one threatened anything. That’s what makes it hard to explain. It happened in a room that felt official enough to be intimidating and ordinary enough to seem safe. The kind of place where clocks tick too loudly and the chairs are meant to keep you alert, not comfortable. Someone stood while I sat. Someone spoke while I listened. The imbalance was subtle, but it was there.
By Megan Stroupabout a month ago in Confessions
