There are billions of faces
in this spinning world,
but not one
is yours.

Not one laughs like you,
thinks like you,
dreams in your exact colors.
Your voice is a note
never sung before.
not quite like this,
not quite by anyone.

You are a fingerprint
pressed gently into time.
Unrepeatable.
Unrehearsed.
The only version of your soul
this world will ever meet.

It’s wild.

To be made of stars
and blood
and memory.
but arranged in a way
that has never existed before
and never will again.

You are a once in forever echo.
And while you walk among millions,
no one can carry your story
the way you do.

And never forget:

You are not just “another.”

You are the only.

It happens in a blink,
a breath,
a room,
a word you swear
you’ve already heard.
Not just heard,
lived.

You freeze.
The world tilts sideways.
Your body is present
but your soul is looking backward,
grasping at a memory
that was never yours to begin with.

You’ve never been in this place.
And yet,
you remember the light
falling exactly like this.
The way someone laughs.
The way your heart pauses,
like it’s waiting
for something you forgot to forget.

It feels like
a whisper from another life,
a crack in the timeline,
a glitch in the loop.
A version of you
that once stood
right here,
saying the same thing,
feeling this exact ache
in your chest.

Maybe time folds.
Maybe memory leaks.
Maybe the universe repeats itself
in soft echoes,
hoping we’ll notice
how connected it all really is.

Or maybe
it’s the soul remembering
what the mind can’t explain—
a dream we walked through
before this life began.
A quiet nudge
that we’ve been here
before.

Even if we haven’t.

It’s not sadness,
not really.
It’s the space after the storm,
where nothing grows,
and nothing dies.

It’s not the tears,
it’s the absence of them.
Eyes dry,
but not clear.
Just blank.

You remember when you used to feel things.
Songs would split you open,
sunsets made you cry,
a laugh could save you.
Now you just nod
and pretend.

They ask,
“Are you okay?”
And you say,
“Yeah.”
Because you don’t know what else to say
when nothing’s really wrong
and everything is.

It’s like watching your life
through a fogged up window.
you’re there,
but not really.

Not sad,
not happy,
just
here.

Breathing,
but not alive.
Moving,
but not living.

And the scariest part is,
you start to get used to it.
Like numbness is safer
than pain.

Like feeling nothing
is easier
than risking
everything.

You miss
missing things.
You miss
feeling full,
or even broken.
You’d take pain
if it meant
you could still feel alive.

But for now you hope that
just maybe
something warm
will reach you
before you forget
what warmth even means.