Resurrection

The world folds in on itself when your mind turns against you. Days blur, nights echo, and love—the thing that once tethered you—becomes something sharp against your chest. You watch the people who care for you retreat, their faces drawn with the weariness of your chaos. You try to call out, but your voice is tangled in static.

Silence settles where warmth used to live. The rooms feel bigger now, filled with the ghost of your laughter, the scent of the past—a quiet museum of everything you broke without meaning to. You find yourself sifting through the debris: old messages, photos, the memory of a hand that once held yours and didn’t flinch. The longing is unbearable. You want to go back, but time has no mercy.

So you start small. A breath. A note of apology you might never send. You pick up a shard of yourself and turn it over, realizing that even fractured glass can catch the light. Healing doesn’t look like wholeness yet—but maybe, one day, it will look like someone reaching back toward you, and this time, you’ll be steady enough to hold on.