I didn't mean to disappear,
it just… happened.
Like fog slipping over a valley,
I faded
while everyone else kept moving.

I was there—technically.
Smiling in photos,
nodding through conversations,
but it wasn’t me
just a shadow wearing my name.

Some nights,
I'd sit in the dark,
not crying—just empty,
like someone turned off the color
and forgot to switch it back on.

I thought I was broken,
but no one saw the cracks.
I was so good at hiding,
I fooled even myself.

There were days I counted hours
like lifeboats,
just trying to make it to the next one.
I'd whisper,
"Just make it till tomorrow."
And sometimes, I did.
Sometimes, I didn’t care.

But here’s what no one tells you:
even when you're lost,
some part of you keeps breathing
even when you hate the air.

And now,
there are quiet moments
where I hear myself again
faint, but real.
Like a song I used to love,
playing softly in the background.

I’m still not okay.
But I’m still here.
And maybe that matters more than I thought.