It's strange, the mornings after nights like that.
You wake up, not really sure if you slept… or just blacked out for a while. Your eyes are open, but your body doesn't want to move. You just lie there— still, heavy, trying to make sense of the blur that was supposed to be rest. The ceiling looks the same, the corners untouched, the cracks familiar. But something in the air feels off. Or maybe it's just you again. Different. A little more broken than the day before.
The room is still dark. Curtains drawn but not fully shut, letting in slivers of light that don't quite reach you. The cold settles into your bones before you even notice it. Your blanket— tossed aside during the night— feels too far to bother with. Empty water bottles sit on the table, along with a glass-half-full from two days ago; like it's waiting for a version of you that cared.
Sunlight creeps in like it has every right to, unapologetic. It hits the floor, the same corner of the room it always does, and for some reason that annoys me today. Not because it's bright. But because it's predictable - like me. Relentless. Like everything else in life my life right now that keeps happening whether I'm ready or not.
I reach for my phone before anything else. I don't even know what I'm expecting. A message? A missed call? Some kind of cosmic glitch where everything's suddenly back to how it used to be? Or in a hope that somehow, the time turned back to when everything was going well.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
My notifications are the same— silent, unchanging. Like she's forgotten how to even type my name. Still, I scroll. Through messages I haven't replied to. Not that I have much going on in my life. I was always a loner. Sometimes, through memes I don't laugh at anymore. Through stories I wish she wasn't in.
Pathetic, right?
Maybe.
I don't even know what I'd do if she messaged.
Would I reply right away? Would I wait— pretend I'm busy like people say you should?
Would I be cold? Distant? Would I freeze for a moment?
Or would everything melt the second I saw her name again?
I hate that I still think like this.
The rest of the morning drags itself across the floor. I sit up, drink water without tasting it, and stare at my reflection on the switched-off TV screen. I don't even go near the mirror anymore— I know what I'll see. That hollow look in my eyes. That distant, checked-out version of me. A loser. Like someone who's still here out of habit, not will.
Some days I do better. I shower. I respond to texts, if I have any! I even laugh at something stupid on YouTube and pretend I'm okay for a while. But then there are these quiet gaps— between moments, between breaths— when I slip. When the weight sneaks back in. And suddenly I'm back in that room. Back at 3 a.m. Holding on to ghosts.
I've stopped asking "why."
It doesn't matter.
She's gone. And maybe that should be enough.
But the truth is, I still haven't figured out how to live without the version of me that existed with her. I always carry her with me.
I miss who I was when I felt wanted.
I miss the way I used to wake up excited to check my phone. The way my mornings started with hope instead of heaviness. Now they begin with regret. With silence. With that dull ache of expecting something that never comes.
And still, I carry on.
Not because I'm strong.
But because I don't know what else to do.