I woke up at 3 a.m. to go to the CR. Nothing dramatic. No nightmare. No existential crisis—just the bladder doing its biological thing. But on the way back, as I passed through the hallway, I noticed it again. That chair. The one in the corner. Beige. Woven arms. Slightly tilted, as if someone had just stood up and forgotten to fix it. Except no one ever sits there. It’s weird, right? How a chair—something built for sitting—can spend its whole life untouched. Like it was assigned a role and then silently exiled from it. That chair doesn’t serve a function anymore. It’s a fixture. A witness. A relic. And in the half-light of 3 a.m., it didn’t look lonely. It looked… patient. That’s when it hit me. What if it wasn’t just a chair? What if it was absorbing things? Regrets. Thoughts no one says out loud. That creeping, subtle unease you feel when your life is technically okay but still feels misaligned. Maybe that’s why no one sits there. Maybe that’s where those quiet feelings go to...
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.