365

I am lost in this world I meticulously made, not by intention, but by accumulation—brick by brick, fear by fear, one misstep at a time. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I had a blueprint once: laughter in sunlit kitchens, voices that didn’t echo, a self that smiled without trying. But somewhere between the plans and the present, I built something else entirely. A labyrinth. A dream that loops.

Now, I drift through this architecture of my own despair, like a ghost with no home and too much memory. Each hallway looks familiar but ends differently—sometimes in mirrors, sometimes in doors that won’t open, and sometimes in strange rooms where I watch myself from a corner. I speak, but my voice has no sound. I cry, but the tears evaporate before they fall.

Over and over, I return to the same dream. It starts the same every time: I’m on a bridge that never ends, walking barefoot on wet concrete, the sky above me a permanent twilight. A train passes in the distance, always out of reach. A child cries behind me. I turn around—no one’s there. I’ve come to recognize this place. It's not a dream. It's a memory that's lost its anchor.

Am I awake? Did I ever wake up?

I wish I had answers, but reality has become a negotiation between imagination and survival. I open my eyes each morning, uncertain if I’ve entered the world or simply moved to another layer of the same dream. The boundaries blur. The air feels scripted. The light feels artificial.

I’ve tried grounding myself. Pinching my arms. Screaming into pillows. Scratching at my skin until red becomes the only certainty. But nothing cuts through the haze. Every step I take folds in on itself, like walking through a painting that refuses to let you leave the canvas. I am aware of my body, but not of its meaning.

I’ve tried to disappear. Packed bags with no destination. Walked through cities I didn’t belong to, changed my name in coffee shops just to feel reborn. I’ve slept in unfamiliar beds with unfamiliar people, hoping their warmth might rewrite my code. I’ve sat on beaches at 3 AM and screamed at the sea to swallow me whole. But no matter where I go, I take the ghost with me. I carry the ache like a passport.

The pain doesn’t ask for attention anymore. It’s just there—like the sound of a fridge humming or the dull ache in your knees when it rains. It doesn't scream. It lingers. Follows. Settles.

And it’s always the same:

Over and over again,
I just cannot get away.
And I can’t escape from myself.

Sometimes I imagine fading into the wallpaper, becoming part of the furniture. Just vanishing. Maybe as smoke. Or mist. Or fog. Something shapeless, formless—unburdened by memory. I romanticize the idea of disappearing as if it’s freedom, as if the erasure of my existence would finally bring peace. But even in those fantasies, some part of me lingers. A shadow. A footprint. A name someone used to call.

Every morning, I wake up with the same dull pressure in my chest, like an anchor hugging my ribs. My body is a house filled with quiet grief, and the emptiness clings to me like a second skin. It hums beneath the surface. It watches me from mirrors. It sighs when I try to smile.

I’ve grown addicted to this melancholy. It’s not beautiful—but it’s familiar. I’ve memorized the flavor of despair, the cadence of hopeless thoughts. I’ve made art from agony, turned sorrow into rhythm. I light candles not for warmth but for mourning, not of others, but of the versions of myself I’ve lost along the way.

I became what I feared:
Distant. Cold. Unreachable.

I used to dream in color. Now everything is muted, like someone turned down the saturation on the world. My ambitions, once fierce fires, are now smoldering coals. I no longer chase things—I let them pass, like trains I refuse to board.

Each day is a carbon copy of the last. The calendar mocks me. The hours blur into one another. I wake, I sit, I pretend to be a person. I eat food that has no taste. I nod at conversations I don’t understand. I scroll, scroll, scroll until my mind goes blank. My bed is both prison and sanctuary.

Where do I go from here?

Every word I try to write feels like a lie. Nothing captures the truth of what’s inside me. I am too fractured for language. My soul—if it still exists—is too bruised to scream. All the pain just piles up in silence, builds cathedrals of grief in my chest, and prays in the name of “just one more day.”

Sometimes I imagine myself on a stage. A single spotlight. A crowd of strangers. I open my mouth and tell them everything. Every fear. Every longing. Every time I begged the universe for a sign and got static instead. I tell them that I never wanted to be this person. I wanted to matter. To feel real. To love and be loved without conditions.

But I leave the stage before they can clap. Because there is no applause for honesty. Only echoes.

I don’t remember much anymore. Names. Dates. The last time I felt awe. But the things I wish I could forget—those stay. The hurtful words. The near-misses. The faces of those who walked away like I was nothing more than a temporary shelter.

As I drift into sleep, I sometimes imagine that in another life, I made it. I imagine waking up beside someone who sees me—not just the smile I manufacture, but the storm beneath. I imagine working a job that doesn't hollow me out. I imagine writing words that heal instead of haunt. I imagine peace—not joy, not ecstasy—just peace.

But for now…

As I step out of the dream or into it—who knows anymore—I just want to say,
I wanted things to be different.
I did.

I am not unique in my sorrow. I know that now. We all carry something. We all scream into different voids. But still, there’s a part of me that hoped I would break the pattern. That I would be seen. That I would matter. That someone, someday, would look at me and whisper, “You made it.”

But I didn’t.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

I am nothing special.
I am just like you.

And maybe…
Maybe that's enough.

Pause

مِن أين البِداية؟

كَيف أُعِيد لَملَمة شَتات رُوحي بعد أن بَعثرتها الأيّام؟

كَيف أُقنِع نَفسي أنّ هُناك طريقًا لم أطرُقه بعد، وأنّ الضّوء قد يكون أقرب مما أتصوّر؟

كُلّ شَيءٍ كان يبدو وكأنّه يَسير في دائرةٍ مُفرغة، كأنّني عالقٌ في نَفسِ اليوم مرارًا وتكرارًا. أستيقظ بنفس الثّقل في صَدري، بنفس الخمول في أطرافي، وأمضي يومي وكأنّني مُجرّد ظلٍ لشخص كان يومًا ما ممتلئًا بالحياة. كنت أتحاشى النّظر في المرآة كثيرًا، خشية أن أرى في عينيّ ذلك الانكسار الذي كنت أحاول جاهدًا أن أنكره

لم أعد أميّز الفرق بين الصّباح والمساء، بين اليوم والأمس، بين الواقع والذكرى. كنت أعيش على هامش الحياة، أراقبها تمضي من حولي بينما أقِف في مكاني، غير قادرٌ على التّقدم، غير قادرٌ على التّراجع. كنت أعتقد أنّني إن بقيت ساكنًا، فإن الألم سيتوقّف، لكنني اكتشفت أن الألم لا يحتاج إلى حركة ليكبر. الألم يتغذّى على الصّمت، على العزلة، على كل لحظة نقضيها ونحن نحاول الهروب منه

لماذا الزّمن لم يداوِ شيئاً؟

بل اكتشفت أنه يكتفي بالمراقبة، يمر دون أن يمدّ يده لينتَشِلنا ممّا نحنُ فيه. الزّمن ليس طبيبًا، ولا معالجًا نفسيًا، الزّمن مجرد شاهدٌ صامت، يسجّل كلّ شيءٍ دون أن يُعيد ترتيب الفوضى التي تركتها الأيّام في داخلنا. كنت أظنّ أنّني كلّما دفنت ذكرى، ستختفي آثارها، لكنها كانت تنبت من جديد كأشواكٍ في صدري، تُؤلمني كلّما حاولتُ التّقدم

كنت أسير في متاهة من أفكاري، كلّما ظننت أنّني وجدت مخرجًا، وجدت نفسي أمام باب يعيدني إلى البدايات ذاتها. كنت أعيش في سجنٍ بنيته بيدي، مقيدًا بذكريات كنت أود نسيانها، لكنها كانت ترفض الرّحيل، وكأنها جزء منّي، وكأنني لا أستطيع أن أكون أنا دونها

لم يكن الأمر سهلًا

ما كانت كل التجارب لطيفة

وبعضها تركت آثارًا دائمة، لا تُرى بالعين، لكنها محفورة في أعماقي، تذكّرني بحروب قد حاربتها وواجهتها. تذكرني بأيّام مرّت وأنا قد ظننت أنها لن تمر. تذكرني بنفسي في تلك الأيام، من كنت، كيف تصرّفت، وكيف علّمتني الحياة

لكن، من أين البداية؟

هل تكون حين أسامحُ نفسي على كلّ لحظة ضعف؟

أم حين أتصالح مع خيباتي وأعترف أنني لم أكنّ السّبب في كلِ ما حدث؟

هل تكون حين أتوقف عن الرّكض خلف الأمل، وأسمح له بأن يجدني؟

أدركت حينها أنني لم أعطِ نفسي الفرصة للنّمو، أنني كنت أقسو عليها أكثر مما يجب، كأنّني كنت أرى في نفسي العدو، كأنّني كنت ألومها على كل شيء حدث، حتى على ما لم يكن بيدي تغييره. أدركت أنني لست مجرد ندوبٍ وماضٍ ثقيل، وأنني أكثر من خيباتي وأخطائي

ربما لم أكن في الفريق الخاسر كما ظننت، وربّما لم يكن هناك فريق رابح وخاسر من الأساس. ربما نحن جميعًا مجرد عابرين، نحمل أمتعتنا الثقيلة على أكتافنا، نتعثّر، ننهض، ونحاول جاهدين أن نخلق من الحُطام بدايةً جديدة

لم يكن اكتشافًا مفاجئًا، لم تكن لحظة استيقظت فيها وأنا شخص مُختلف، لكنّ كان هناك شعور خفيف، كنَسمة هواء دافئة وِسط بَردٍ قارس، شُعور بأنّ الحياة لم تنتهِ بعد، وأنّه ربّما، فقط ربّما، هُناك شيءٌ يَستحقُ أن أعيش مِن أجله

خَرَجتُ مِن أفكاري على صَوت خفيف لمطر يتساقط. نظرتُ مِن النافذة، رأيت الشّوارع تغتسل، وكأنّها تُحاول أن تمحو آثار الأيام الماضية، أن تبدأ من جديد. فتحتُ النافذة ومدَدَتُ يدي، شعرتُ بقَطراتِ الماء تُلامس جِلدي، باردة لكنّها مُنعشة، وكأنّها تَهمِسُ لي: ما زالت هناك أشياء جميلة عليك أنّ تعيشها

وَقفت هُناك للحظة، أراقب السّماء الرّمادية، أنفاسي مُتلاحقة، لكنّني لم أشعرُ بالاختناق كما كنت أشعر دائمًا. بل كان هناك شيء مُختلف، كأن روحي تتنفّس للمرّة الأولى منذ وقتٍ طويل

ابتسمت، لا لأحد، بل لنفسي. ولأول مرة لم تكن ابتسامتي ثقيلة، لم تكن مجرّد قناع أُخفي به ما بداخلي، بل كانت حقيقية، صادقة

ربّما البداية ليست محطّة نبحثُ عنها، بل لحظة نقرّر فيها أن نحيا رغم كلّ شيء

وربّما، فقط ربّما، لم تكن البداية يومًا بعيدة. ربّما كانت تنتظرني طوالِ الوقت، فقط كنت بحاجة إلى أنّ أراها

Vernal Equinox

It was Spring again. The leaves swayed gently, stirred by the wind’s quiet whispers, and the birds, oblivious to sorrow, filled the air with their carefree songs. Flowers trembled at the touch of the breeze, stretching toward the sun that had finally broken free from Winter’s heavy grasp. The world was coming alive, shaking off the cold, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something stir within him too—a quiet hope, tentative but persistent. Yet, what made this Spring different wasn’t just the warmth or the light. It was her. She had been there all along, a quiet presence in his life, but only now, as the season shifted, did he begin to see her clearly.

Winter had been merciless. It arrived without warning, seeping into his life the way frost crept over glass—quiet, inevitable, unfeeling. The cold wasn’t just outside; it lived inside him now, settling in the spaces where warmth used to be. Days blurred together, each one indistinguishable from the last, stretched thin beneath a grey sky that never seemed to break. Snow piled against his window in uneven mounds, burying the world beneath layers of silence.

There were no bright mornings, no golden light spilling through the blinds—only the dull, colourless glow of a sun too tired to shine. He would wake to the same empty air, the same untouched bed, the same ghost of something that used to be. Sometimes, he swore he could still hear her voice in the quiet, like a whisper carried by the wind—except it was never really there. Just echoes of a past that refused to let go.

He stopped counting the days after a while. What was the point? Time had become shapeless, stretching endlessly forward, yet going nowhere at all. The world outside moved on—people hurrying through the cold, bundled in thick scarves, steam rising from their lips as they laughed, as if winter was just another season to endure. But he remained frozen, trapped beneath the weight of things unsaid, things undone. The walls of his apartment felt smaller with each passing day, the silence heavier. Sometimes, he would step outside, only to realize the air no longer bit at him the way it should. He had gotten used to it.

And that scared him.

Because what if the cold never left? What if this was all that remained—a season without end, a life spent watching the world thaw while he stayed buried in the ice?

But seasons change, even when it feels like they won’t.

It wasn’t sudden. Winter didn’t surrender in a single day, nor did the cold loosen its grip without resistance. But something was different. Subtle at first, like the faintest crack in thick ice.

One morning, he stepped outside, expecting the usual sharp bite of cold air against his skin—but it wasn’t there. Instead, the wind carried something else, something lighter. It was the kind of breeze that didn’t cut but stirred, whispering through the bare branches as if waking them from a long slumber. The sky, still pale and hesitant, held a softness it hadn’t before. He found himself standing there longer than usual, hands in his pockets, as if trying to understand what had changed.

It wasn’t warmth. Not yet. But it was the absence of the worst of the cold.

And that was something.

The city, too, seemed to sense the shift. Snow, once an unyielding sheet of white, had begun to thin, revealing glimpses of the world beneath. Patches of earth peeked through the frost-bitten ground, the streets damp with melted ice. Shopkeepers propped open their doors, letting in air that no longer stung, and for the first time in months, he heard birds. Not many—just a few, their songs fragile, uncertain, as if testing whether it was safe to return.

And then there was her.

She had always been there, woven into the fabric of his days in ways he never truly noticed before. A voice in passing, a laugh that lingered in the air longer than it should, a presence that had never demanded his attention but never quite disappeared either. He didn’t know what made him see her differently now—perhaps it was the season shifting, or perhaps it was him.

She smiled at him that day, a simple thing, effortless. But something about it felt different. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the first time he had really looked.

Hope was a quiet thing. It didn’t come in grand gestures or sudden revelations but in the smallest moments—barely noticeable unless one paid attention.

He began to notice more.

The way the light lingered longer in the evenings, stretching golden fingers across the pavement. The way the air smelled—not of frost, but of earth, thawed and breathing again. The way her presence felt different now. Warmer. Closer.

They talked more, though neither of them acknowledged the shift. It was in the casual exchanges, the way conversation stretched past what was necessary. A comment that turned into a shared thought. A joke that lingered longer than expected. A pause—never awkward, never rushed—just a moment where silence felt comfortable.

She was easy to talk to. Easy to be around. And that terrified him.

Because easy meant effortless. And effortless meant dangerous. It meant he could slip, without realizing it, into something he wasn’t sure he was ready for. He caught himself watching her sometimes—not in the obvious way, but in the way one observes a sunset, unaware they had stopped to look.

But love was not a sudden downpour; it was a slow rain, seeping into the cracks of his guarded heart. He felt it, a presence just beneath the surface, waiting.

And yet, he wasn’t sure if he could let it in.

Spring had arrived, but Winter had left its mark.

Some nights, when the world was quiet, he still felt the weight of old scars pressing against his chest. Love, after all, had once promised warmth before leaving him in the cold. And even now, with her laughter weaving through his days like sunlight through branches, doubt lingered.

What if this was temporary? What if, like the seasons, warmth would come only to leave again?

One evening, they walked together, the world around them alive with the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. She spoke of something—he wasn’t even sure what, lost in the way her voice carried through the soft air. But then, she asked him something. Something small, something simple.

And he hesitated.

She noticed. He saw it in the way her smile faltered, just slightly. The way her gaze searched his, waiting for a truth he wasn’t sure he could give.

But fear was not a thing that left easily. It lingered, whispered. Told him that stepping forward meant stepping into the unknown. And for a moment, the cold threatened to return.

But then she did something he hadn’t expected.

She didn’t press. She didn’t demand answers. Instead, she simply walked beside him, unfazed by his silence. As if she understood. As if she was willing to wait.

And for the first time, he wondered if maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought.

Something had changed. Not in the world, but in him.

It wasn’t an epiphany, nor a sudden rush of certainty. Just… an understanding. A quiet knowing that whatever this was—this connection, this warmth—it wasn’t something to fear.

He met her gaze then, and for the first time, he did not look away.

There was no dramatic declaration. No grand moment of realization. Just the quiet certainty that he had stepped into something new.

The days grew warmer, and so did he.

He found himself searching for her presence before he even realized it. A shared glance across a room. A laugh that softened the edges of a hard day. A moment of silence that felt more like companionship than emptiness.

One evening, as they walked side by side, she reached for his hand—casual, unthinking. And for the first time in a long time, he did not flinch.

The cold was gone.

And in its place, something else had settled. Something warm. Something real.

Something like love.

Unspoken Goodbyes

We traverse a winding road, the red convertible slicing through the tranquil expanse, the wind threading through our hair, the sun imparting a muted warmth. Despite our physical proximity, an intangible chasm has widened, expanding inexorably beyond the horizon. An unseen force binds us—delicate, intricate, yet progressively fraying under the weight of time. You cast a fleeting glance into the sun visor’s mirror, meticulously adjusting details once deemed inconsequential, your touch deliberate, as if the act of refinement could mend the pervasive silence. Your arms are folded, your gaze fixed beyond the windshield, tracking the passing scenery, measuring the moments in expectant stillness, anticipating an elusive change that never materializes. The silence between us, once comfortable, has grown oppressive, a heavy presence that neither of us dares to acknowledge.

I recollect a period before distance settled between us, a time when my fascination with you transcended verbal exchange. Your presence alone was enough to elicit an involuntary smile, a disruption in the monotony of my existence, fleeting yet profoundly significant. In those ephemeral instants, I found an illusion of permanence, immersing myself in the narrative I desperately wished to believe. What once was an innocent infatuation evolved into something far deeper— a yearning, an ache that I mistook for something reciprocal.

In the solitude of my mind, I constructed a reality— a meticulously curated vision where you occupied the epicentre, the keystone of my aspirations and ambitions. I envisioned us amidst the ordinary and the extraordinary, navigating the cadence of life in shared triumphs and tribulations. Yet, the foundation upon which I built these imaginings was an illusion, a mere fabrication of my desire. Each moment I cherished was a mosaic of my own making, a carefully arranged pattern of hope and longing, one that disregarded the subtle signals you gave, the quiet indications that your heart had never truly been aligned with mine.

Perhaps my expectations exceeded reason— perhaps I projected an unattainable ideal, confusing longing for something more substantive. And while my devotion was resolute, it proved insufficient. I believed that persistence could bridge the gap, that love, given unconditionally, could somehow create reciprocity. But love cannot be forged in solitude; it requires an equal, willing participant.

I contemplate the void within you, the impetus that drove you to look beyond me, to search for something I could never embody. I wondered if you, too, created narratives in your mind— but instead of constructing a future together, you were quietly seeking a way out. Perhaps you never truly belonged in the space I built for you, and I was merely another chapter in your pursuit of something beyond my grasp.

I endeavoured to offer you everything— a life imbued with love, purpose, and profound meaning. You were the focal point of my existence. Yet, reality has a way of unravelling illusions, and despite my efforts to understand, your heart remained inaccessible. I gave you my days, my thoughts, my quiet hopes, only to realize too late that you had never asked for them.

When the inevitable moment arrived, you departed— abruptly, without retrospection, disappearing as though our connection had been inconsequential. I searched for signs that you felt something, a lingering hesitation, a glance that might betray regret. But there was none. Your absence echoed louder than your presence ever did, and in that silence, I found the answer I had long refused to acknowledge.

And I relinquished you—not from desire, but from necessity. Love, when met with indifference and silence, eventually dissipates into resignation. And ultimately, you were not worth the struggle. My heart, once steadfast, grew weary of the battle, and I realized that loving you had become an exercise in futility. There was no redemption to be found in clinging to a ghost of something that never was.

Fabricate whatever narrative brings you solace, distort the past to fit your chosen reality, let others believe the carefully curated version you present. But in the solitude of night, when pretence is stripped away, when no audience remains, you will confront the inescapable weight of your choices, the void that lingers in their aftermath. Perhaps you will come to understand the cost of what you so easily discarded.

Isolation will become your companion. It will settle in the spaces I once occupied, a relentless whisper in the recesses of your mind. And as you retreat beneath the covers, seeking refuge in transient distractions, the truth will seep in, filling the spaces you desperately attempt to conceal. And the ache it brings will be unrelenting. You will come to know the solitude you feared, to confront the echoes of choices made in haste, and perhaps, in that stillness, you will find a semblance of understanding— but it will arrive too late.

Despite the ache that once consumed me, I have found solace in the passage of time. Each day that unfolds carries me further from the weight of your absence, and with it, I reclaim the pieces of myself I once surrendered. Growth emerges from pain, and in my solitude, I have uncovered a resilience I never knew existed. I no longer yearn for what was, nor do I wish to return to the illusion I once embraced.

Yet, as I forge ahead, a quiet hope lingers—that one day, you will feel the depth of the emptiness you left behind. That the realization of what you lost will dawn upon you with the same intensity with which I once loved you. And when that moment comes, I hope it unravels you, just as it did me. Only then will you understand the gravity of what you let slip away, and perhaps, in that understanding, you will finally know, the cost of taking love for granted.

The red convertible is mine now, a quiet reminder that I’m still moving, even if only out of necessity. It feels different—emptier, yet strangely grounding. The road ahead is still uncertain, but I drive, not because I know where I’m going, but because the act of moving forward is all I have left. The wind ruffles my hair, but it no longer holds the same comfort it once did, and the silence that lingers between the engine's hum and the passing miles feels heavier than before. I’m alone, and the space beside me remains just as empty as the past I can’t quite escape. But I drive, because that’s all there is to do. This is how our story ends—our goodbyes left eternally unspoken.