I’m not sleeping. Two hours, maybe three on a good night, and that’s only when I can convince my brain to shut up for long enough. The rest of the time, I’m just lying there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for something—anything—to pull me out of this.
Since you left, everything’s been… wrong. Nights feel endless, and the silence is unbearable. I used to love the quiet, but now it feels suffocating, like it’s pressing down on me, reminding me that you’re not here.
I try to fill the gaps with noise… TV shows I’m not even watching, songs that just make me cry, podcasts that feel like background static. But nothing works. The emptiness always creeps back in.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How someone can leave, and suddenly the whole world feels different. The bed’s too big, the nights are too long, and even my own thoughts feel like strangers. I keep thinking about how you used to tell me to get some rest, how you’d check if I was okay when I stayed up too late. Now, there’s no one to tell me that.
People keep saying, “You need to take care of yourself.” But how do I do that when everything feels so heavy? When the person who made it all bearable is gone?
I keep replaying everything in my head, wondering if I could’ve done something different. If maybe, just maybe, I could’ve held on tighter, kept you here a little longer. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re gone, and I’m left here, barely holding it together.
I don’t know when it’ll get better—if it ever will. All I know is I’m not doing well without you, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that I am.
