Through The Fog

I think I’m all out of borrowed time— all the second chances I kept spending like they’d never run out. The warnings came. In sleepless nights. In empty bottles. In promises I swore I’d keep tomorrow. In the people who looked at me like they were waiting for me to save myself. But tomorrow kept moving. And I kept acting like there’d always be one more sunrise to get it…

I’m lost and losing— at least that’s what it feels like when the nights get long and my thoughts start keeping score. Counting every mistake. Every door that closed. Every person I couldn’t hold onto. The tally grows. And some days it looks like proof. Proof that I’m falling behind, that I missed something important, that everyone else got a map I never received. But feelings are…

There’s a version of me I don’t introduce people to. Not because I’m ashamed. Because explaining them would take too long. They live behind my smile, behind the stories I tell, behind every “I’m fine” that leaves my mouth before I’ve had a chance to think about it. They know things. The weight of regret. The sound of a heart breaking without making a noise. The loneliness that can…

Some things leave. People. Promises. Versions of yourself you thought would last forever. They slip away quietly, without asking permission, without caring how badly you wanted them to stay. I used to chase them. Used to run after endings like I could change their minds, like enough love, enough effort, enough pain could make something remain. But loss has never listened to…

The mirror knows things I never say out loud. It sees me before the smile, before the practiced answers, before I remember who I’m supposed to be today. It sees the tired. The kind sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that settles behind the eyes after carrying too much for too long. Some mornings I barely recognize the person staring back. Not because they’ve changed— because I…

There are places I hide that no one knows about— not rooms, not addresses, not somewhere you could find with a map. I mean the places inside myself. The quiet corners where I keep old heartbreaks, old mistakes, old versions of me that never learned how to let go. I visit them more often than I should. When the night gets long. When the house gets quiet. When a memory catches me…

Somewhere along the way I became a ghost in my own life. Not gone— just distant. Watching days pass through windows I never opened, standing in rooms without really being there. People still say my name. Still ask how I’m doing. Still tell me stories like I’m part of them. And I answer. I smile. I nod. I play my role. But there are moments when I feel transparent— like everyone…

Some days I carry the weight of everything— every mistake, every goodbye, every version of myself I wish I could forget. Not because I want to. Because it follows me. In quiet moments. In songs I didn’t expect. In the pause between one thought and the next. I tell myself to put it down. As if grief is something you can leave on a table and walk away from. But some things cling…

There are things I don’t say out loud— not because I don’t feel them, but because once words exist outside of me, they become harder to survive. So I keep them buried. The anger that never fully leaves. The loneliness that shows up even in crowded rooms. The fear that maybe I’ve spent so long pretending to be okay I forgot how to actually be it. People think silence means…

I exist somewhere between healing and ruin— not fully broken, not fully okay, just carrying both versions of myself at the same time. One side of me wants peace. Wants quiet mornings, steady hands, a mind that doesn’t turn every small hurt into something catastrophic. The other side— the one built from survival— still waits for things to fall apart. Still flinches at…

Story of my life— always halfway somewhere. Half over it. Half still hoping. Half healed. Half wrecked. Too aware of what’s wrong and somehow still repeating it. I leave doors cracked for people who already walked out. Replay conversations like maybe this time the ending changes. Say I’m done while still checking for signs I shouldn’t care about. I call it moving on when…

I’ve been living stuck between here and there— between who I was and who I’m trying to become, between letting go and still looking back. Nothing feels settled. The past still pulls at me like it wants another chance, while the future stands distant, blurred out like something I’m not sure I’ll ever reach. So I exist in the middle. Half-healed. Half-hoping. Halfway out of…

They say I’ve got a heart of stone— like I woke up this way, cold from the beginning, untouched by anything that ever tried to reach me. But stone isn’t born hard. It becomes that way through pressure, through weather, through years of standing in storms with no shelter. People see the surface and stop there. They don’t see how many times I tried to love softly, how many…

I forgot what happy feels like. Not joy— I remember flashes of that. Moments. Temporary things. I mean happy in the quiet sense. The kind that settles in your chest without needing a reason. The kind that doesn’t feel borrowed or fragile. Lately, everything feels measured. Every smile examined like I’m trying to decide if I actually mean it or if I just got good at performing…

I feel like I’ve been sinking for so long the bottom of the sea started feeling familiar. No sunlight here. No noise. Just pressure— constant, crushing, quiet enough to make you forget what breathing freely used to feel like. At first I fought it. Kicked toward the surface, reached for light, told myself I wasn’t meant to stay this deep. But exhaustion changes…

I’m getting pretty good at this— the way I hold it together, the way I answer like nothing’s slipping. You’d never know how close it gets sometimes. How everything inside me leans just a little too far, like it might tip if I don’t stay careful. But I do. I keep my voice even. My face steady. My reactions small enough to pass as normal. I’ve learned the timing— when to…

I’ve been losing sleep again— not because I can’t close my eyes, but because my mind won’t close with them. Every thought shows up louder at night. Every memory suddenly needs to be replayed like it’s trying to prove something. The room stays still, but my head doesn’t. It circles the same questions, the same regrets, the same unfinished conversations that should’ve died hours…