There is a voice that asks the same question over and over,
like rain tapping on a window no one opens:
What makes you sure?
And the answer never comes.
only echoes,
only the sound of time passing
through a room full of half-finished thoughts.
Here, days bleed into each other like watercolors left in the rain.
March whispers to October,
December holds hands with July,
and the clocks don't seem to care.
There's a longing in the air
not loud, not desperate,
but patient, like someone waiting
for a train that might never arrive.
The people here move like shadows,
sometimes too quiet, sometimes too loud,
always carrying a weight they can't quite name.
They talk about leaving, about staying,
about trusting and not trusting,
about wanting to be held
and wanting to disappear
all at once.
There are songs, of course
always songs.
The kind that make you stop mid-step,
the kind that feel like they were written
for someone you used to know,
or someone you're still becoming.
And in the middle of it all,
a faint belief.
tattered, maybe, but still there.
that love is possible,
that connection is real,
that somewhere beneath the noise and the distance,
something beautiful is trying to survive.
It's not a story.
It's more like a sigh. the kind you let out when you finally admit
that you're tired of pretending
you don't feel so much.
And that's okay.
Because here, feeling too much
is not a flaw.
It's the only thing that makes sense.