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Friday 18 September 2026 10:23:46 GMT
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linh.110912
𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚑 𝚌ú𝚗🎀 :
tự nhiên nghe bài này mà nhớ ông nội quá🥺
2026-09-19 03:59:26
935
hawibu11
iem? :
nhớ ngoại
2026-09-19 04:07:08
439
tuananh2008_t8.2026
NN :
Nhớ ông ngoại 🥺
2026-09-20 10:07:36
96
nhuwtuat
hk. :
Có ai nghe mà khóc khong 😭🥹
2026-09-19 04:17:20
96
tawtoan
Lwihon :
nhớ bà nội quá😌
2026-09-19 15:43:15
45
heutrungg209
.Trung? :
mình thì nhớ ông ngoại,ông mất rồi..
2026-09-19 12:22:36
79
hoaa_doi_thuong
𝑯𝒐𝒂𝒂☹︎ :
nhoo baa
2026-09-19 08:54:11
41
lie_lelele
lie_lelele :
nhớ ngoại lắm lun
2026-09-20 01:12:21
27
yalak2006
Lezz :
Nhớ ông ba ngoại 😭
2026-09-19 23:16:51
8
thm.20092
M :
nhớ ngoạiii🥺
2026-09-19 18:10:28
20
rictephomaiqu
"rloitaohet". :
nhớ... ông nội.
2026-09-21 03:23:18
14
diemchi2201
DChie :
nhớ nội
2026-09-19 12:09:38
10
huyzn.cheng203
_huyzn.cheng_ :
con nhớ bố sắp 5 năm r 😢
2026-09-19 19:04:50
8
trchucmy226
𝓶𝓮𝓸 ݁˖Ი𐑼⋆ :
nhớ bà ngoại qua..
2026-09-20 01:46:17
5
_huyy.huaw_
"huii_huấw..!🥀 :
nhớ ngoại 🥺🥺🥺
2026-09-19 16:09:37
6
hanhiabc
𝙃𝙖𝙖 𝙉𝙝𝙞𝙞 :
nho me
2026-09-19 07:51:47
6
ngc41360
N.g.ọ.c❤️‍🩹 :
Nhớ ông nội 😭
2026-09-19 13:39:20
7
ngocbichneee
Lapin Una Usagi :
Tối đó bà nội thở nặng, tay chân phù lên nên tui có linh cảm gì đó rồi bắt đầu lo sợ. Cô điều dưỡng báo chỉ số oxi, huyết áp đều tốt rồi nội thở nhẹ hơn nên an tâm mà ko ở lại ngủ. Tui có ở lại hồi lâu nghe bà "ờ ờ" như đang nói chuyện thôi. Tui còn hẹn đầu giờ chiều qua nội nhớ chờ con nha. Về nhà là tui đổi ý để sáng qua nên đặt báo thức sớm. T lại lo nghĩ nhiều rồi khóc cả khuya đến 4h. Tnhien sáng đó lại dậy đúng báo thức, mặc dù mọi ngày tui dễ bỏ quên báo thức lắm. Tính sang nhà nội luôn vậy mà 10 phút sau nhận thông báo bà nội không qua khỏi. Ân hận quá, đáng lẽ phải nên tin vào trực giác mình chứ
2026-09-19 18:17:29
8
bo.com121
Làm anh liệt bi xg rồi biệt ly :
lại bùn nx hã hoi đừng bùn mà vô nk tui coi đi cho đỡ bùn nha vui lắm iu iu iu🥰
2026-09-19 08:49:21
9
nguyenhongkk19
Ng hong🐌 :
Nhớ ba thế
2026-09-19 17:42:15
2
taisaov010
lía :
nhoo ngoại
2026-09-20 14:39:46
2
choijuu_
góc nhỏ cho Choi Doran :
nhớ bà nộiii, mai là tròn 6 tháng òiiii
2026-09-30 11:14:58
0
k_15_290
𝒶𝓷𝓱 Ƶ𝒶𝓲 𝓭𝒶 𝔻𝑒𝓷 🐹📷 :
t nhớ nội
2026-09-21 02:59:52
2
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Other Videos

The Emma Gonzalez speech didn’t end. The microphone remained live. It was March 24, 2018. 39 days earlier, a 19-year-old gunman walked into Building 12 of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. He carried a legally purchased Smith & Wesson M&P15 semi-automatic rifle in a black canvas bag. He entered the east stairwell at 2:21 in the afternoon. He pulled the fire alarm. When students stepped out of their classrooms into the hallway, he raised the rifle. He fired 139 rounds. He shot through the glass windows of classroom doors. He fired down the length of the corridor. He killed 17 people. He wounded 17 more. From the moment the first shot echoed in the first-floor hallway to the moment the shooter dropped his weapon in the third-floor stairwell and blended in with the fleeing students, exactly six minutes and twenty seconds passed. Now, 39 days after the massacre, a crowd of 800,000 people stood on Pennsylvania Avenue to hear the Parkland shooting survivors at the March for Our Lives rally. Gonzalez walked to the podium and pulled a folded piece of paper from their pocket. They leaned into the microphone and began by reading the names of the dead. They didn’t just read the names; they read the mundane, ordinary things those people would never do again because of a bullet. Carmen Schentrup would never complain about piano practice. Aaron Feis would never call Kyra
The Emma Gonzalez speech didn’t end. The microphone remained live. It was March 24, 2018. 39 days earlier, a 19-year-old gunman walked into Building 12 of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. He carried a legally purchased Smith & Wesson M&P15 semi-automatic rifle in a black canvas bag. He entered the east stairwell at 2:21 in the afternoon. He pulled the fire alarm. When students stepped out of their classrooms into the hallway, he raised the rifle. He fired 139 rounds. He shot through the glass windows of classroom doors. He fired down the length of the corridor. He killed 17 people. He wounded 17 more. From the moment the first shot echoed in the first-floor hallway to the moment the shooter dropped his weapon in the third-floor stairwell and blended in with the fleeing students, exactly six minutes and twenty seconds passed. Now, 39 days after the massacre, a crowd of 800,000 people stood on Pennsylvania Avenue to hear the Parkland shooting survivors at the March for Our Lives rally. Gonzalez walked to the podium and pulled a folded piece of paper from their pocket. They leaned into the microphone and began by reading the names of the dead. They didn’t just read the names; they read the mundane, ordinary things those people would never do again because of a bullet. Carmen Schentrup would never complain about piano practice. Aaron Feis would never call Kyra "sweet pea." Joaquin Oliver would never play basketball with Sam or Dylan. Meadow Pollack would never smile in the hallways. Luke Hoyer would never. Cara Loughran would never. Martin Duque would never. The list took less than 2 minutes to read. Then, Gonzalez stopped speaking. They closed their eyes for a second, then opened them and stood there. The timer on the podium kept running. At the time, federal broadcasting guidelines and network algorithms were built on a single, rigid premise: dead air is a failure. Silence on television signals a lost satellite feed or a broken microphone. When the silence on the National Mall passed the two-minute mark, network control rooms faced a technical contradiction. They were broadcasting live to millions of American homes, transmitting nothing but the sound of an eighteen-year-old’s heavy breathing. Television networks split their screens, showing Gonzalez standing motionless on one side while anchors sat in their studios on the other, unsure whether to cut away or keep broadcasting the silence. They kept broadcasting. At first, the massive crowd yelled words of encouragement. Gonzalez did not acknowledge them. They did not nod. They stared straight ahead, tears spilling over their eyelids and running down their cheeks. You could hear the wind blowing across the microphone and camera shutters clicking rapidly from the press pit. A crowd of eight hundred thousand people went entirely still. It was not peaceful. It was agonizing. Every time someone in the crowd shifted on their feet, every time a viewer at home wanted the silence to break, they were forced to realize that the students trapped in Building 12 had waited the exact same amount of time for the gunfire to stop. At four minutes and twenty-six seconds of pure silence, a digital timer beeped on the podium. Gonzalez leaned back into the microphone. Their voice did not waver. "Since the time that I came out here, it has been six minutes and twenty seconds," they said. "The shooter has ceased firing, and will soon abandon his rifle, blend in with the students as they escape, and walk free for an hour before arrest." "Fight for your lives before it's someone else's job." They didn't ask the nation for a moment of silence; they trapped them in it. 3 weeks later, the Florida legislature passed the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School Public Safety Act. It was the first time in two decades the state of Florida restricted firearm access. The federal gun laws did not change. Emma Gonzalez: the student who weaponized the quiet.

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