MissDerpDark

Here I am. 1 a.m. My body is asking for rest, but my eyes refuse to listen. There is something restless in me tonight, a quiet insistence, a realization still warm in my chest. This might be the first time I write about happiness without feeling like I'm betraying my pain. I haven't been okay lately. Life didn't fall apart. Only the part where love lives. Grief found me anyway. It settled into my days, made a home in my chest. I learned how to mourn without permission, how to ache without an ending. So I ran from it. I built routines like walls. I tried to rewire my thoughts, distract my heart, outrun the feeling. Anything, as long as I didn't have to sit with it. I wouldn't have survived this without my friends. They didn't try to fix me. They didn't rush my healing. They simply stayed. They let me spill the same stories, again and again, like repetition might finally soften the truth. They celebrated the smallest victories. "Today, I washed the dishe...

Saw a house in flames. So I ran in, dressed for rescue, hands full of good intentions. I thought courage was enough. I thought preparation was enough. But what is saving, if the soul inside does not want to be saved? I burned myself trying to save a burning house. Now I wonder was it ever mine to carry? Was there ever a fire, or only smoke I imagined? Was this the right armor, or was I fighting the wrong kind of danger? Was it not enough? Or was I not enough?