you’re gone.
it was my last day.
i walked past you, and you didn’t let go—
you held on for a second
and told me i was a beautiful soul.
i was about to cross oceans,
but you measured distance in heartbeats,
not miles.
we said our goodbyes—
ephemerally.
forever.
you found yours,
and i lost mine.
because—
you didn’t find me,
but i lost you.
the brass door handle is stone cold. it begins to melt as you grab it and squeeze it tight. as the handle turns, tiny wool threads brush your wrist to remind you they’re here to keep you warm. you open the door just enough for you to slip in and leave the crips, cold air behind.
don’t you like it though?
don’t you like when your cheeks start to loosen up? and when you shut the door and stillness soaked in warmth surrounds you?
A quiet pause to welcome the day—
You clumsily stomp between staying wrapped in the sheets or getting up, your feet gently stretching as if to test the idea of waking. Rays poke through the old stained floral curtains. You give in to the urge to feel the blood rush through your body as you rise, the deep, soft carpet tickling your soles. You walk to the window, fling the draperies wide open, and—simply—say hello to the world.
Your skin glows in the morning sun. Your eyes water. A nearly unnoticeable movement in the corners of your mouth mirrors your arms shooting up in a stretch to salute the sun.
This moment is precious.
Cherish it.
No need to rush. The world can wait.
Each night, as we drift off to sleep dreaming of distant galaxies, we journey through personal constellations—fragments of memories, unanswered questions, moments of joy—floating among them like stars. This voyage carries us inward, guiding us gently through our subconscious galaxies. As we sink deeper into our sheets, feeling the soft cool cotton hug our skin, the boundless depth of our thoughts, feelings, and memories begins to mirror the endless expanse of space. With each breath slowing down, we drift effortlessly through this inner cosmos.
“Do you want to punch me?” he asked with a surprising confidence.
“Huh?”
“Do you want to punch me? Will that make you feel better? Do you need to let it out?”
“NO, I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING PUNCH YOU! WHAT ARE YOU? NUTS?”
“COME ON, punch me! I won’t do anything, I won’t fight back—it’ll all be good,” he insisted.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He wanted me to punch him. I’d never punched anyone before. Should I?
Would it make me feel better?
What if I started and didn’t stop?
What if he did fight back?
But I didn’t want to fight—verbally or physically. I just wanted to talk. He was so drunk. Most people, when they’re that drunk, spill their guts without much of a push. Not this guy. He was unreachable. And maybe he didn’t think there was a conversation to be had.
All of a sudden, it felt like some sad, bitter bartender inside me had just mixed together the cocktail of the night.
A splash of grief.
A shot of fury.
A dash of pride.
And he was serving it straight.
“I’m not punching you,” I said. My voice cracked.
I knew this wasn’t going anywhere. I just wanted to run. Anywhere but here.
“GROW A PAIR OF BALLS AND DO IT! I CAN FUCKING TAKE IT!”
“GO FUCK YOURSELF!” I shouted.
“NOW WE’RE TALKING! COME ON! DO IT!” he kept yelling, pushing.
But I didn’t want this. I wanted my dad. I wanted someone who would love me without me having to make a scene. Someone who wanted me around without me begging for attention. Someone I didn’t have to physically hurt to feel seen. Relationships are hard, but this?
This was beyond me. And so, while he stood there, squaring up and waiting for the punch, I simply said:
“Go fuck yourself.” And I turned around.
I walked away—fast, focused, not looking back. He stood there, swaying, yelling after me.
“DON’T WALK AWAY! DON’T YOU BE WALKING AWAY FROM ME, SON!”
But I did. Even as my legs trembled. Even as my heart pounded.
I didn’t stop. And when I turned the corner, I ran.
Was this it?
Was this the conversation?
My heart was racing, but not from running—I’d only made it a few steps. I stopped at the edge of the pavement, letting cars pass. Their headlights were too bright, too intense, like beams slicing straight through me. I felt exposed. I tried to breathe. Tried to count. Made it to three, maybe, and then my thoughts took over. My legs tingled. My body stiffened. Everything felt too loud and too far away. Yet it was like wearing earplugs and drowning in a thick, hazy fog. My breath came in short, shallow gasps—as if I was breathing through a straw.
In.
And out.
In.
And out.
Drops of sweat rolled down my spine. One after another.
In.
And out.
My eyes started to water. I couldn’t see the cars anymore—but I could hear them. I crouched down on the pavement, wrapping my arms around myself tightly.
Fighting the noise.
Fighting the everything.
I started counting again.
One. Just focus on the breath.
Two. What’s going on?
Three. In. And out.
Four. Did he follow me?
Five. Fully in. Let it all out.
Six. I think he’s behind me.
Seven. Inhale. Exhale with a sigh.
Eight. I’m alright, I think.
Nine. Is he behind me?
Ten. I inhale—and hold.
Then slowly…it dissolved. The noise. The panic. A cloud of silence fell over everything.
And in that silence, I felt still. Exhale. The storm had passed. But the residue lingered. The quiet felt heavier than all the shouting. In that moment, I felt alone. More than I’d ever felt, even when he was standing right next to me. When I finally turned to look behind me, he wasn’t there.
Truth is, he hasn’t been there for some time now.
Waking up with the feeling of being at home is precious to me. This morning, when I opened my eyes and saw the all-too-familiar old wardrobe standing tall in the corner of the room, a sense of contentment wrapped around me like the thick blanket lying across my body.
The air was cold and crisp, and a faint scent of wood lingered in the room. Sunlight peeked through the gaps around the blinds, framing the window in a soft glow.
It’s been a while since I started my day like this, and so I stayed in bed for a while, soaking it in. I felt I deserved this moment—this quiet, familiar stillness—and naturally, I wanted to let it linger.
It’s not really the wardrobe—it’s the feeling. That sense of rootedness, of knowing where the light switch is without needing to look. It’s the grounding energy, it’s letting my feet navigate the old wooden floors without thinking. It’s the endless memories. It’s the falling into a warm, soft hug.
It’s home.
Over the past few months, most mornings have felt like being pulled out of water mid-dream—confusing, disorienting. But today, I floated. It wasn’t just refreshing; it was like taking a breath of fresh air after gasping for one for far too long.
Quiet Paragraphs 