I think I’m drowning—
not in water,
but in something heavier.
Air that won’t reach me.
Rooms that feel too small
no matter how wide they are.
A pressure in my chest
like something’s sitting there
and refusing to move.
I keep breathing—
or at least
I go through the motion of it.
In,
out,
in—
but it doesn’t land.
Doesn’t fill me
the way it’s supposed to.
Like oxygen
forgot my name.
Everything feels distant,
muffled,
like I’m hearing life
from underwater
while pretending
I’m still on the surface.
I smile when I have to.
Answer when I’m asked.
Move through moments
like I’m not quietly
losing the ability
to feel them.
And no one notices.
Because drowning
doesn’t always look like panic.
Sometimes
it looks like stillness.
Like silence.
Like someone
standing right in front of you
who forgot
how to breathe.
I don’t need saving—
not loudly,
not dramatically.
I just need
one full breath
that doesn’t feel borrowed.
One moment
where my chest
remembers
what it means
to open
without fear
of closing again.
Through the Fog 