I named the clouds just to feel known,
told secrets to a skipping stone.
The wind replied with riddles sweet—
I laughed, alone, on crowded streets.

Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.

I waved at my reflection,
it didn’t wave back.

Just blinked once,
then smirked.

I stepped closer.
It didn’t move.
I asked it,
“Which one of us is real?”

It cracked.
And whispered,
“Not you.”

There’s someone I call by something else,
not their name,
just a word that only I
seem to understand.

They move like they don’t know
they’ve been noticed.
They speak,
and the air changes.

It’s silly.
The nickname,
the feelings,
the way I look up a little too long.

But some things feel safer
when they stay unsaid.

We were four,
a balanced kind of chaos,
laughing in even numbers.

But now,
it feels like three voices
always reach the other first.
Three steps ahead,
three inside jokes,
three plans whispered
just loud enough.

They say, "It's just for now,"
that I'm still one of them.
But even when books are closed,
their world keeps spinning,
and I'm left
outside of gravity.

Sometimes I wonder,
is it them who've changed?
Or have I?

I love being their friend.
I love them.
But I hate being the silence
in a room
full of noise
that once included me.