There’s a specific kind of quiet that feels less like peace and more like a missing floor. You sit in a room full of things you chose, under a ceiling you pay for, and realize the space isn't filled by any of it.
The air just feels thin. Like if you spoke, the sound would go out and never find a wall to bounce back from. It’s the hollow weight of a house after the power goes out—everything is still exactly where it belongs, but the current is gone, and the dark feels heavier because it’s familiar.
You watch the world move through a glass pane. People are talking, reacting, burning through their days with a friction you can't seem to spark in yourself right now. It isn't a sharp pain. Sharp pain would at least mean there's something there to hurt. This is just the dull, gray ache of an echo where a voice used to be, a draft coming from a door you can’t find to close.
You just sit with the inventory of your own breathing, waiting for the weather inside to change.