fear

It’s not sadness. It’s not anger. It’s not even emptiness.
It’s something strange-er. I feel muted, it’s a numbness so thick that I feel like my emotions belong to someone else.

I’m here but everything inside me is quiet. Too quiet.

I watch people laugh, and I feel like I’m standing behind a glass wall where I’m close enough to see it all, but far enough to feel any of it.

I’m there but not really there.

It’s like life keeps happening around me and I’m just a blur in the background. I ask myself more often than I admit, not because I think I’m the only one suffering but because it feels unfair to fight a war inside my own mind no one else can see.

It’s unfair that my brain is wired with storms and highs and lows that makes me feel nonexistent. It’s supposed to be a calm place but it’s not.

I carry more than I speak about. I’m tired in ways sleep can’t fix and the weight I carry never fully leaves my shoulder.

And there’s the fear. The fear underneath all the numbness. A fear I don’t talk about because it sounds dramatic when spoken, and terrifying when felt.

It’s the fear that I won’t come back to myself. That the spark that makes me me will forever be gone. That I’ll keep drifting in my own life like a ghost.

It’s like a shadow following me and I’m scared but I never say it out loud.

Because how do you explain a fear that has no shape, no reason, just heaviness?