It’s the end, or at least the end of whatever I used to carry around so carefully.

I keep thinking it would be helpful to name it, to catalogue the feeling like proof that it once existed, but every time I reach for it, there’s just air, maybe that’s the point.

It’s strange how losing something doesn’t always hurt the way you expect. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it feels like finally putting a heavy bag down and realising your shoulders have been aching for years. I don’t know when it slipped away, only that I stopped trying to keep it alive.

Maybe this emptiness isn’t emptiness at all. Maybe it’s space, maybe it’s me, slowly, clumsily, letting go not because I’m ready, but because I don’t know how to hold on anymore.