5:17 a.m.I opened my eyes, but I didn't wake up.Sometimes it feels like my eyelids stay open all day, but the rest of me stays in darkness.
The room was silent. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. It took me a few seconds to remember how to breathe.When I noticed it, I wasn't afraid. Nothing scares me anymore. Fear is a feeling, after all—and I lost those a long time ago.
I didn't sit up in bed. My body doesn't want to move. It's as if every muscle has learned to say, "let it be."
I don't remember my dream. But my pillow was wet. I had cried, again.Not for no reason—just for one so old that I'm too tired to explain it.
Apparently it's Monday.I stopped tearing pages off the calendar two years ago.Now, time only exists for me in hours—like waking up before dawn, with the same emptiness.
My phone doesn't ring. No notifications. No calls.I wouldn't want them anyway. Human voices sound like noise to me now.Most conversations feel like scraps of sound that only ruin the meaning of silence.
On my way to the kitchen, I didn't turn on the light. I'm used to the shadows.I switched on the kettle but didn't make tea. I just needed the sound.Hearing something boil reminds me that maybe something inside me is still moving.
I picked up an empty glass and leaned against the kitchen doorframe.While staring at it, I wondered:"Is there nothing left inside me, either?"
I looked out the window. Everything was gray.It was as if the sun had given up on rising.Across the building, the balconies were still.
A man lit his morning cigarette downstairs. His hand didn't tremble.Mine never stay still like that.They either shake, or fall into nothingness.
"Will every morning be like this?""How many more mornings will pass this way?""And why am I still here?"
The questions echoed behind my eyes, like a voice in an empty theater inside my head.The same monologue over and over—and I am the only spectator who forgot how to applaud.
They say most people feel better when they go outside.But in crowds, I only feel lonelier.When people talk, I just watch their mouths. The words never reach my mind.It feels like each one of them is performing their own false life for me.
No one ever asks about mine.But even if they did, I wouldn't be able to explain—because I don't know what I'd say.
I have an old notebook.Its pages are yellowed, its cover scratched.Sometimes I don't write words in it, only lines.Crooked, broken, scattered lines.Like the shape of my inner world.And sometimes I even lose myself in those lines.
Loneliness isn't locking yourself in a room.Loneliness begins when even the mind you share a bed with feels distant from you.I've lost myself inside my own head.And a voice keeps whispering:"This world isn't meant for you. You came wrong, you stayed wrong."
The last time I saw my mother was two years ago.Without meeting my eyes, she asked, "Are you okay?"If she had looked at me, she would have known the answer already.But no one really wants to see.People only ask so they can hear "I'm fine."
That day, I said "I'm fine."And something else inside me died.
Sometimes I want to cry for no reason.But even my eyes are tired.Sometimes I want to scream for no reason.But my voice dies before it's even born in my throat.
Today I have to go outside.I need to buy bread, some coffee.Ordinary things. Like living.
But I'm afraid that if I meet someone's eyes out there, I'll fall apart.Because in those eyes there will be either pity or indifference.And either one is enough to shatter me.
I want to buy a notebook and write inside it:"I survived this morning too. But I don't know why."