there is a specific kind of grief that comes with holding onto something that is already slipping away. it feels like standing in the middle of an empty room with your coat on and keys in hand, but your feet are heavy, rooted to the floorboards, refusing to move toward the door. “you remind me everyday i’m not enough but i still stay.” that is the endless, exhausting loop i am trapped in. it’s the bittersweetness of an attachment that slowly hollows you out but still tastes like home. we have mastered the quiet art of talking without actually saying anything at all and choosing a heavy, unspoken tolerance over the sharp, terrifying finality of a goodbye. i am beginning to realize that my deepest fear isn’t just losing them. it is the vast, echoing space they will leave behind. the sudden, deafening silence that follows after you finally gather the courage to walk away into the dark. so for now, i stay. i let the days blur together into a quiet static, holding my breath, hoping that somehow the weather will change. but deep down, i know the storm has already broken, and i am just so tired of pretending i am not getting drenched.