Through the Fog

Tag: emotional vulnerability

  • I Don’t Care

    I say I don’t care

    like it’s armor—

    like if I repeat it enough

    it’ll harden into truth.

    Like it’ll quiet the part of me

    that still notices everything—

    every shift in your tone,

    every silence

    that lingers too long.

    I don’t care—

    that’s what I tell people

    when I don’t want them

    to see how much I do.

    Because caring

    has never been gentle with me.

    It digs in deep,

    makes a home in my chest,

    refuses to leave

    when it should.

    So I learned

    how to say it lightly,

    how to shrug it off

    like it’s nothing,

    like you didn’t matter

    the way you did.

    But the truth is—

    indifference

    is something I pretend to have.

    What I actually carry

    is quieter than that,

    heavier than that.

    Because if I really didn’t care—

    I wouldn’t still be here

    thinking about it

    long after

    you’re gone.

  • For the Very First Time

    I feel so alone

    for the very first time—

    not the quiet kind of lonely,

    but the hollow kind,

    the kind that echoes

    when I breathe.

    I feel like I’m letting go,

    like something inside me

    has slipped through my fingers

    while I wasn’t looking.

    Every little thing

    feels heavier than it should—

    like I’m carrying a sky

    that forgot how to hold itself.

    And fear…

    fear has come to stay.

    Not as a visitor,

    but as a shadow

    curling around my feet,

    following me from room to room

    as if it knows

    I’m too tired to fight it tonight.

    But even in this quiet collapse,

    even in this trembling place,

    some small part of me

    is still reaching—

    for light,

    for warmth,

    for anything that reminds me

    I don’t have to face this alone.

  • Unread

    The room is quiet

    in the way empty places breathe—

    soft, patient,

    like they already know

    no one is coming.

    Your name glows

    on the dark screen in my hands,

    a small white light

    that promises nothing.

    I tell myself

    silence doesn’t mean absence.

    That people have lives

    beyond the reach of my fears.

    But loneliness

    is a skilled storyteller.

    It takes a single unanswered message

    and builds a whole ending from it—

    a story where I was too much,

    or not enough,

    or simply forgettable.

    The minutes stretch thin.

    The night settles deeper.

    Across the room

    an empty chair waits

    like someone once meant to sit there.

    And I wonder

    how something so small—

    a pause,

    a delay,

    a quiet space between words—

    can echo so loudly

    in a heart

    that’s still learning

    how to believe

    someone might stay.