It's almost evening now.
That in-between hour where everything turns a shade duller— when the sun is just barely clinging to the sky, painting the walls a tired orange, like even it is too exhausted to keep shining. The light doesn't comfort me. It never did. It only reminds me of how many hours I've wasted today doing nothing that feels alive.
I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon. Not because I'm punishing myself— at least I don't think I am. It's just… food feels pointless. Like everything else. I thought of ordering something earlier. Even opened the app to order something. Stared at the screen for a while. Then closed it without a single tap. Nothing looked good. Or maybe I just didn't feel like I deserved to enjoy anything.
I still haven't left the room.
My clothes from last night are still on the floor. The fan above me spins slowly, rhythmically, like it's mocking how still I've become. The mirror across the room catches just enough light to reflect me half-clear, half-shadowed. I look at it sometimes, not because I want to— but because I'm trying to understand what changed. When exactly did my reflection start looking like a stranger?
I tried journaling today. A friend once told me it helps. That getting things down on paper untangles the knots in your head. But all I managed was one sentence:
"I don't know who I am without the pain anymore, or without her."
And then I stopped. Not because I ran out of things to say, but because even the act of writing felt like pretending I was getting better.
There was a time— not too long ago— when her name felt sacred, peaceful. Now it feels dangerous. I can't say it out loud. I can't even whisper it. It's like an old melody that used to soothe me but now plays only when I least expect it, reminding me of a version of myself that loved too loudly, too freely, too much. To the point of destroying myself in the process.
Sometimes I wonder if she remembers the small things.
Like the way I'd go quiet when I was anxious, or how I always noticed when she changed her display picture— no matter how minor. When I asked how her mood was, even at the slightest change.
Does anyone else notice those things now? Or was I just the unnecessary extra in her story— easily replaced, quickly forgotten? Erased faster than the time it took to write my existence in her book.
I scroll through her name everyday. Not to text. God, no. Just to remind myself she's still real. Still out there. Living a life that no longer includes me.
And in some twisted way, I envy her peace. I envy her silence.
Because mine is loud.
Painfully, extremely loud.
It echoes through the hours, in every undone task, every unread message, every late-night silence that stretches just a little too long.
I'm not even asking for love anymore.
Just a sign that I mattered.
Even for a moment.
"Some wounds don't bleed. They just stay open quietly, asking to be felt."