I died

I Died I died a little every morning, somewhere between waking and remembering that I had to be here again. I died in the rooms where nobody noticed how loudly I was breaking. Some days I was almost alive— laughing too hard, making plans, believing the sky might still have my name in it. Then the darkness changed its mind. It came without warning, pulled the floor from underneath me, turned every good thought into something I couldn't trust. My moods were oceans— one minute I was drowning, the next I was standing on the shore, pretending I had never been afraid. I became tired of rebuilding myself from pieces I didn't remember losing. And tonight, I don't see the road ahead. No sunrise. No miracle. No hand reaching through the dark. Only this terrible quiet telling me that nothing will change. So I say, “I died,” because saying “I am hurting this badly” feels too enormous. But somewhere beneath the ashes, something is still breathing. I don't know if it's hope. I don't know if it's strength. Maybe it's only the smallest part of me that hasn't learned how to disappear. And for tonight, perhaps that is enough.