Some days don’t arrive. They repeat . Like the ghost of a bell you’re not sure you heard, but still check the window for. You wake up, and the sky is already tired. The clock ticks not forward, but sideways . You open your inbox and find nothing but yesterday trying to start a conversation. There is coffee, but it tastes like memory. There is noise, but it hums in the key of gone. And somewhere in that long stretch of artificial light and recycled air, you think of someone. Or no one. Or someone who used to be no one until their absence took shape. You wonder— Did they ever sit in a day like this, where everything feels like it’s happened already, but differently? Would they remember you, not in the headline moments, but in the filler scenes— the hallway pause, the lunch alone, the rain that didn’t quite fall? Maybe you were just a whisper in the acoustics of their life. Still, whispers carry when the world is quiet enough.
I dwell in the spaces where shadows meet light, where questions outnumber answers. A seeker of truths buried deep, I write to unearth what lies beneath the surface. In the chaos, I find my voice. In the silence, I find myself.