There are days when the world feels hollow, like it’s been drained of color, like someone took the sepia wash of memory and left only the dust. You walk through it—this place that used to be familiar—and everything is just a little too quiet, a little too far away. The trees don’t whisper anymore. The porch light flickers, but no one’s home.
You tell yourself it’s just a phase. A fog. A passing thing. But it settles in your bones like humidity, thick and unshakable. You forget the sound of your own laughter. You forget the way your name used to feel when someone said it with love. You forget what it means to belong.
And yet, you keep moving. Not forward, exactly—just away. Away from the center, away from the warmth, away from the version of yourself that once knew how to bloom. You become a ghost in your own story, haunting the edges of rooms you used to fill.
There’s a kind of sacred ache in that distance. A quiet reverence for the parts of you that still remember how to feel, even if they’re buried under layers of silence. You start to notice the small things again: the way the wind presses against the shutters, the way the cicadas sing like they’re trying to wake the dead.
And maybe that’s what you are now—half-asleep, half-remembered, waiting for someone to call you back. Not with urgency, but with tenderness. With the kind of voice that knows your name even when you’ve forgotten it.
Until then, you drift. Not lost, exactly. Just distant. Just waiting.
You tell yourself it’s just a phase. A fog. A passing thing. But it settles in your bones like humidity, thick and unshakable. You forget the sound of your own laughter. You forget the way your name used to feel when someone said it with love. You forget what it means to belong.
And yet, you keep moving. Not forward, exactly—just away. Away from the center, away from the warmth, away from the version of yourself that once knew how to bloom. You become a ghost in your own story, haunting the edges of rooms you used to fill.
There’s a kind of sacred ache in that distance. A quiet reverence for the parts of you that still remember how to feel, even if they’re buried under layers of silence. You start to notice the small things again: the way the wind presses against the shutters, the way the cicadas sing like they’re trying to wake the dead.
And maybe that’s what you are now—half-asleep, half-remembered, waiting for someone to call you back. Not with urgency, but with tenderness. With the kind of voice that knows your name even when you’ve forgotten it.
Until then, you drift. Not lost, exactly. Just distant. Just waiting.
