**That moment when you realize you don't feel as much as you need to—**and you come to that slow, creeping awareness that maybe, just maybe, you never will. Still, you hope. And you hope. And every damn day, you hope again. But when does it ever matter? When can you say something—anything—that actually means something? When?

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You shrug it off like you’re stronger than that. Like you’re above needing approval. And maybe you were once…But now, at 40, you crave it. Not from the dead parents who aren't coming back. Not from the long-lost friends who ghosted with the years. But from somewhere—anywhere—that feels like home. But what is that even now?

You’re both anti-social and a social butterfly, but when it comes time to actually connect, you disappear. You fade out, hoping no one calls, no one texts, no one wants to hang out. And you don't even know why. It's just... the way it is.

Is it anger? Bitterness? No—those emotions aren’t allowed. Not for you. In 2025, it seems like everyone else gets to rage, gets to break down, gets to scream, and be forgiven. But you? You just chalk it up to _______.(Fill in the fucking blank.)

You want to be whole. But the version of you that still believes in wholeness feels too far gone. Too damaged. And you don’t even know how you got here. So how do you fix it?

More meth? LMAO. Yeah, that’s a joke, right? What the hell were you thinking? Like that’s going to fix anything? Isn’t that part of the reason you don’t see your daughter? Because you get high? Even when you don’t for a while, you avoid talking about it. Why? Fear? Shame? Something deeper?

Fruit flies buzzing around every open drink. Even the sealed ones. You don’t notice anymore. You’re not even there. You ignore the little signs because you’re hanging on by a thread of what you call “existence.” And yet—somehow—you’re still the one people come to for help. Because you feel for them, because you want them to be okay. But...

What about me? From the back of my mind: What about my worth? What about my value? Do I have any? If so, what the hell is it?

Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe it's all just noise—nonsense. Because if everyone has value, does anyone truly stand out? Or do we just cancel each other out?

Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I don’t. But I hold it in, because she doesn’t know how to deal with it—or maybe doesn’t want to. And the truth? The only person I’d ever want help from... is her.

So what now?

I'm at a loss.

Part of me wants to die. But I don't actually want to die. Hell, I even hate sleeping. So how did I end up here? How did I get like this?

And maybe the worst part—is that when it all finally falls apart,when your heart is in your hands, not a single soul even considershow it might feel to you.