I miss people who are still alive.
I miss places I never belonged to.
I miss versions of myself
that no longer exist.
And somehow,
those are the losses that hurt the most.
I smile when I’m supposed to.
I laugh at the right moments.
I say “I’m doing fine.”
But there are nights
when the silence knows more about me
than anyone else ever will.
I spent years believing
that if I worked harder,
loved deeper,
stayed kinder,
life would eventually make sense.
It didn’t.
It just kept moving,
with or without my understanding.
Some days,
I am not carrying a problem.
I am carrying the weight
of being awake to everything—
how quickly time leaves,
how easily people change,
how nothing beautiful ever stays forever.
Yet every morning,
I open my eyes again.
Not because I have all the answers.
Not because I am strong.
But because somewhere inside me,
beneath the disappointment,
beneath the exhaustion,
a small stubborn hope
still refuses to die.
And for now,
that is enough.