Silence became enough. I still have his number. Not because I’m going to call. Not because I want to go back. But because for a long time, I thought one day he would say something that made it all make sense. After four years of knowing him, and three
Most people don’t walk away to prove anything. They don’t sit there thinking, “this will teach them a lesson.” or planning how to hurt you, or how to make you feel what they felt. By the time they leave, they’re usually just… done. Done explaining the same
The longer you stay on the wrong train, the more it takes from you—and not in a way you notice right away. It doesn’t come as a single loss you can point to or measure. It happens quietly, almost politely, as if it doesn’t want to disturb
There’s a part of this no one explains, not even the people who talk about trauma like they understand it. They tell you about the obvious things—panic, fear, memories—but they don’t tell you what happens when everything goes quiet and you’re left alone with yourself,
Not in reality— but in the only place that ever felt light enough to carry me when everything here felt too heavy. Up there, nothing weighs you down. Not your body. Not the years. Not the version of you that kept breaking and still had to keep going. The ground
The day bleeds out in silence. A thin moon—barely there— like something that refused to disappear completely, like a promise that stayed long after it stopped being real. The light is leaving, slowly, dragging its fingers across the horizon as if it aches to stay, as if it knows
It’s never too late to start over, that’s what people say, and what I keep reading everywhere. But realistically speaking, it’s not as easy as it looks. You have to analyze it all, revise it a hundred times, weigh the pros and cons, recheck everything, ask around,
There’s a part of me that refuses to grow. Not immaturity. Not childish behavior. Something else. My mind, my energy, my desires— they still move like I’m not even twenty. And then I look in the mirror, and it tells a different story. Every morning I tell myself
I survived it. That’s what everyone says matters. But no one talks about what you lose while you’re busy surviving. For me, it wasn’t one moment or something dramatic. It was quiet, and it showed up in my body. There was a time when I took care
I thought I had time. That was the mistake. It feels like someone pressed pause on my life — not on the world, just mine. Everything else keeps moving the way it’s supposed to. People wake up, go to work, complain about the same things, make plans, cancel plans, laugh,
No one could tell. That was the point. I’ve always been a good actor. As a child, I thought actors were given a story and left alone to feel their way through it. Very disappointing to learn there were scripts. Not just for films. For life. I learned early.
I wish I never saw it. That’s the truth no one writes about. It was never meant to be a story. A piece, a personal essay, a post. I simply stopped. I stopped. That’s where it began. I stopped working. I stopped running. I stopped being distracted. And