(a companion to "Unaddressed")
The ceiling is only a ceiling today,
blank and harmless,
not a surface waiting to deliver a sign.
I wake without bracing,
without the familiar tightening
that used to greet the morning.
The kettle begins its quiet monologue,
and the room doesn’t listen for anything.
The air has stopped rehearsing questions.
I think of the person I was last year,
standing in this same kitchen,
waiting for the next plot twist
to announce itself.
I want to tell them:
you can stop memorising the lines.
The disaster didn’t come, or it did,
and still the bread toasts,
and the light falls in its usual places,
unconcerned with your storyline.
There is a kind of survival
that doesn’t need applause.
My jaw has unclenched
without asking permission,
and I’m no longer preparing
the speech I thought I’d owe the world.
I’m not a protagonist this morning,
just someone holding a warm mug,
feeling the cool floorboards,
noticing that the silence in the hallway
has forgotten its role.
I remember the letters I drafted—
the explanations, the maps of pain—
and see they are only paper now.
The version of me who needed to send them
has stepped out of costume,
content to watch the steam rise
and let the day begin
without a script.
Feb 12
Feb 12, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC
(a companion to "Unaddressed")
The ceiling is only a ceiling today,
blank and harmless,
not a surface waiting to deliver a sign.
I wake without bracing,
without the familiar tightening
that used to greet the morning.
The kettle begins its quiet monologue,
and the room doesn’t listen for anything.
The air has stopped rehearsing questions.
I think of the person I was last year,
standing in this same kitchen,
waiting for the next plot twist
to announce itself.
I want to tell them:
you can stop memorising the lines.
The disaster didn’t come, or it did,
and still the bread toasts,
and the light falls in its usual places,
unconcerned with your storyline.
There is a kind of survival
that doesn’t need applause.
My jaw has unclenched
without asking permission,
and I’m no longer preparing
the speech I thought I’d owe the world.
I’m not a protagonist this morning,
just someone holding a warm mug,
feeling the cool floorboards,
noticing that the silence in the hallway
has forgotten its role.
I remember the letters I drafted—
the explanations, the maps of pain—
and see they are only paper now.
The version of me who needed to send them
has stepped out of costume,
content to watch the steam rise
and let the day begin
without a script.
A companion to "Unaddressed", this poem reflects the moment when the rehearsed version of a life finally loosens its grip, when the self steps out of the old script and into something quieter, unforced, and unperformed.
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