I’ve been living
stuck between here and there—
between who I was
and who I’m trying to become,
between letting go
and still looking back.
Nothing feels settled.
The past still pulls at me
like it wants another chance,
while the future stands distant,
blurred out
like something I’m not sure
I’ll ever reach.
So I exist in the middle.
Half-healed.
Half-hoping.
Halfway out of places
that no longer fit me
but still feel familiar enough
to miss.
And maybe
that’s why it hurts so much—
because becoming
isn’t clean.
It’s uncomfortable.
Lonely.
A constant tug-of-war
between comfort
and growth.
Some days
I want to run backward—
toward old habits,
old people,
old versions of myself
that at least knew
what to expect.
But something in me
keeps moving forward anyway.
Even slowly.
Even scared.
Because deep down
I know
I can’t stay suspended forever.
Eventually
I’ll have to choose
what parts of me
come with me
and what parts
have to be left behind.
Until then—
I’ll keep standing
in this in-between place,
trying to believe
that lost
and becoming
sometimes look
exactly the same.
Through the Fog 