I don't know what time it is.
And for once, I don't care.
The clock on the wall has stopped blinking. The phone's dead. I didn't even bother plugging it in last night. Or was it this morning? I've lost the ability to tell. The light outside is gray— neither morning nor night. One of those in-between hours where the world forgets to exist properly. And honestly, that suits me just fine.
I woke up feeling the same kind of empty I've been carrying for months now. But maybe today, the emptiness felt heavier. Or maybe I just noticed it more. The kind of heaviness that doesn't scream— it just sits quietly beside you, like an old companion you forgot was still there.
But there was no sudden ache. No miracle clarity. No cinematic moment where I stood in front of a mirror and realized something had changed. It was just… another day. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like even time didn't want to draw attention to itself.
My room looks like a warzone. Messy. Cold. Curtains were drawn halfway like they were undecided. Clothes in piles, dust gathering around the windowsill, old water bottles lined up like some weird memorial of days I've survived. I'm sitting on the bed, knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves stretched over my hands. The air is cold but I'm sweating anyway— heart racing for no reason, or maybe for every reason. My phone, as usual, untouched except for the auto-updates it never asks permission for. I didn't expect anything to be different, but somehow… I still hoped it would be. Maybe a simple wish from her?
I haven't eaten anything since yesterday. Or was it the day before? I can't remember. And I don't care.
Sometimes my stomach growls and I ignore it like I ignore everything else now— notifications, sunlight, mirrors, people. I've stopped brushing my hair. I avoid reflective surfaces. I know what I'll see: a face that doesn't look like mine anymore. Eyes sunken, mouth always slightly parted like I'm on the verge of saying something I never get around to.
Today is one of those days where everything feels like glass. Thin. Brittle. Too much noise and I might crack.
It's strange how certain dates carry meaning, even when you try not to let them.
This one used to mean something. Candles, maybe. Messages. A call from someone who once knew me in ways I can't even remember anymore. Now, it's just another marker in the timeline of me pretending I'm okay.
Birthday, which I didn't celebrate. I didn't even mention it to anyone.
Not because I wanted to be mysterious. But because deep down, I didn't want the wrong people to remember. Or worse— only the wrong people would.
Then suddenly, A memory came in without warning.
I was staring at the ceiling, completely still, and it just… unfolded.
We were sitting on the stairs of the rooftop in our college building. It was raining— not hard, just that soft, misty kind of drizzle that makes everything feel suspended in time. She had this habit of tapping her fingers on her knee when she talked. I always noticed it. I don't think she knew she did it.
She was rambling about something— maybe a classmate, maybe a stupid meme. I don't even remember the words. I just remember watching her laugh. Really laugh. The kind that makes your heart flutter. The kind of laugh that makes you feel like - maybe the world isn't all bad. And I remember thinking, "God, I hope I don't lose this."
I remember brushing slightly against her hand without meaning to, unknowingly. And how she didn't move it away. She was still talking.
How was I supposed to know moments like that were already becoming memories? Memories that I have to remember painfully.
I snap back, and my chest aches like I got punched. It's a physical pain now. There's a weight in my ribs I can't dislodge, like grief took up residence and won't pay rent.
My head hurts. My vision's getting blurry, head feels dizzy. My limbs are too heavy. Everything I do feels delayed, like I'm underwater— present, but not fully here. Somehow my breathing gets faster and faster. So does my heartbeat. Is this the end?
I keep telling myself to shower. To step outside. To breathe a little deeper. But the most I've done today is change which corner of the bed I'm curled up in.
Sometimes, I write half a sentence in my notes app and delete it. Other times, I just lie there trying to remember what her voice sounded like when she was half-asleep in the morning. How she sounded when she was happy, like she was having the best time of her life. The sweet sound of her voice. The way she used to mumble my name. Or the way she said "bye" like it was never going to be the last time. I'm afraid I'll forget them soon.
I've been listening to the same song on repeat. Not because I like it. But because it's the only thing that matches the noise in my head. Everything else feels too fake, too cheerful, too distant. This one song, though… it knows something. It hums like it's sitting beside me in the silence.
I went about the rest of the day like any other day though. Mind numb, body going through the routines. Still lying on the bed. Scrolling through reels I won't remember. Even the reels remind me of her. Listen to voice notes I'll never send. Sometimes I wonder if I'm healing or just avoiding. The line's too blurry to tell anymore.
But the truth is, some part of me still waited. Not for cake. Not for celebration.
Just… a message.
Even a one-word, just one.
Maybe just a stupid emoji.
Anything.
I don't know what hurts more— being forgotten entirely, or realizing you were never remembered the way you thought.
I used to believe that pain had a peak— that it would hurt the most at the start, and then slowly get better. But that's not true, is it?
Pain lingers. It builds a home in you. It learns your name, your schedule. It waits until you think you're fine, and then it knocks the air out of you when you're doing something stupid like opening the fridge or tying your shoelaces.
No one sees this part. People don't realize how loud it gets in the silence. Especially on days like this.
They see the posts I make, maybe. The little updates. The "life goes on" captions. But they don't see me curled up under a blanket at 4AM, staring into nothing. They don't see the panic attacks at 2AM. The way I flinch when I hear her name from someone else's mouth. Or when I think of her with someone else, and it's so excruciating pain that I feel like vomiting.
They don't know I sometimes rehearse conversations I'll never have.
Or that I still write texts I never send.
I think the scariest part isn't that she's gone.
It's that I might never be the same again. That I'll remember all of these, and she'll forget me just in a snap.
There was a version of me that once felt loved. That laughed without a second thought. That believed in the softness of people. Believed in being genuine.
That version is gone. And this new one? I don't like him. He's quiet in a way that doesn't feel peaceful. He looks at the world like it's already said no.
But still… I didn't break. I kept moving anyway. Not because I'm strong. But because stopping would mean letting it win.
And I can't let it win.
Not yet.
I let the day pass, minute by minute. Quietly. Without complaint. Without noise. Like I didn't notice. It didn't matter.
But it did.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just… in that quiet, unspoken way only we feel— when all we wanted was for someone to make the first move… and they didn't.
And now, it's past midnight. Again. Again I'm sitting here. In the room where the clock doesn't matter. Time doesn't matter.
Where the world doesn't ask me for anything.
Where memory and silence live side by side.
The day's over. No different from the others. No trace left behind. But maybe that's okay. Maybe this is what life itself looks like— not loud, not triumphant. Just… surviving another year quietly, with all the feelings tucked in where no one can see.
And maybe that's enough for now.
"Some days you don't fight the darkness. You just sit with it, until it lets you breathe again.
In a hope that someone will remember, without being told."