Still Here, Just Unable to Respond

I send my words like paper boats to sea,

they drift in light, but never back to me.

My name still stands where voices used to grow,

yet every answer fades before it shows.

To speak, be heard, yet never truly meet,

is half a heartbeat skipping in defeat.

I can still publish on Vocal.

My stories go live. My words are visible. Readers can leave responses.

But I cannot reply.

My comments are suspended. I cannot thank the people who take the time to read. I cannot answer questions. I cannot participate in conversations under other writers’ work. I am here, but only partially.

And that partial presence feels heavier than I expected.

It is a strange position to be in. To exist on a platform that encourages community, but to feel separated from that very community by an invisible wall. Nothing publicly announces it. Nothing clearly explains it. It just… is.

I reached out to the support team respectfully. I asked for clarity. I asked whether my account was under review, whether there was a policy issue, whether this restriction was temporary.

Instead of answers, I received a generic email asking me to rate the support I received.

Support.

It is a strange feeling to be asked to evaluate help that never truly arrived.

I refreshed my inbox more times than I would like to admit. I reread the message, searching for something I might have missed. Some hidden explanation. Some reassurance. But there was none.

I am not writing this in anger. I am writing this in honesty.

If I made a mistake, I would accept it. If I crossed a guideline unknowingly, I would correct it. If this is automated moderation, I would understand. What is difficult is not the restriction itself, but the silence around it.

Silence leaves room for doubt.

It makes you question your own steps.

Your own words.

Your own presence.

Because writing is not just about publishing. It is about connection. It is about dialogue. It is about the small, human exchanges that make this space feel alive. A reply. A thank you. A simple acknowledgment.

Without that, something essential feels missing.

I have drafts ready. I am prepared to work. I want to stay. I want to build here. But writing without connection feels incomplete.

I am overwhelmed, and I am unsure what to do next.

Should I wait and hope for a review?

Should I start a new account?

Should I move somewhere else entirely?

Each option feels heavy. Waiting feels uncertain. Starting over feels exhausting. Leaving feels like surrender.

I do not want to disappear quietly. I do not want to abandon something I have invested my time and heart into. But I also do not know how long to stand in a space where I cannot fully participate.

There is a difference between being unseen and being unable to respond. The second one lingers more.

If anyone has experienced something similar or understands what might be happening, I would truly appreciate hearing from you. And if I eventually have to start over, I may need your support to rebuild momentum.

Not because I cannot write alone.

But because writing was never meant to exist in isolation.

I am not giving up on writing.

I just need to know where I am still allowed to speak.

******

If you have read this far, thank you.

Thank you for listening, even when I cannot respond the way I want to. Thank you for staying present in a space that currently feels uncertain for me. Your time, your attention, and your quiet support mean more than I can express right now.

I am still here. Still writing. Still hoping this silence is temporary.

And until I can reply again, please know that every read, every response, every bit of encouragement does reach me.

Even if I cannot answer back yet.

contact email.. AARSH MALIK