I’ve been sick.
Though I don’t remember being sick in the usual way.
No fever, no diagnosis. Just a slow unraveling of energy, a quiet depletion. I’ve felt drained, exhausted, like my body and mind are moving through fog. And tonight, rather than waiting for clarity, I want to make an effort. To write something. To reach out.
Recovery, whatever that means, has made me think about absence.
About who I miss. Not just the obvious names, but the ones that linger in the corners of memory. Friends. Acquaintances. People who once felt like home, or maybe just a warm hallway I passed through.
How do we tell the difference?
Does your friend know you, really? Or do they know the version you’ve curated, the one that smiles, listens, performs?
Sometimes, strangely, we speak more freely with someone we’ve just met. There’s no history to protect, no expectations to uphold. Just the rawness of now.
And yet, the friends we choose the ones we hope will stay, those are the hardest conversations to begin. You put yourself out there, trembling with truth, and hope they won’t run away. That they’ll see you, not just hear you. That they’ll stay long enough to understand.
I don’t have answers tonight.
Just this: a quiet ache, a wish for connection, and the courage to post something imperfect.
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