I used to think there was a version of myself worth fighting for. Someone whole, someone unshaken, someone who could look in the mirror and not flinch at what stared back. But somewhere along the way, that version of me slipped through my fingers. Maybe I let it. Maybe I didn’t hold on tight enough.
It’s strange, losing yourself so slowly that you don’t notice until it’s too late. You go through the motions, you say the right things, you show up where you’re supposed to be. But one day, you wake up and realize you’ve been running on autopilot, and the person making the choices isn’t you anymore. It’s just the sum of habits, obligations, and expectations that kept moving even after you stopped.
I tell myself it’s fine. That people change, that nothing stays the same, that maybe this was supposed to happen. But that doesn’t make it any easier to sit with the silence, with the weight of all the things I used to want but no longer chase. I wonder if I stopped trying because I was tired, or because I stopped believing I could be anything else.
There are nights when I think about who I was before. The things that made me feel alive, the dreams that felt too big to hold but somehow fit perfectly in my hands. I don’t know if I could go back, even if I wanted to. I don’t know if she’s still waiting for me, or if she gave up and moved on a long time ago.
I want to say I’ll find my way back. That I’ll wake up tomorrow and something will shift, that the missing pieces will fall into place. But I know myself better than that.
Some things, once lost, don’t want to be found.
