In the Fog

In the Fog

It’s like walking through fog — not the kind that looks romantic in movies, but the kind that clings to your skin and fills your lungs until you can’t tell if you’re breathing or drowning.

I’ve got energy but no direction. I’m awake but not alive. Everything feels far away, like I’m watching my own life from outside the glass. I can see what needs to be done, I can even care in theory, but I can’t reach it. It’s like my hands don’t quite touch the world anymore.

And under all of that, there’s this ache — this deep, slow pulse of missing. Missing touch. Missing being seen. Missing the one who made me feel like I wasn’t too much or not enough. The one who reached through the static and actually found me.

No matter what I try, my heart won’t let go. The more I tell myself to move on, the tighter it holds. It’s like it’s clinging to the memory of warmth, afraid that if it releases even for a second, the cold will be permanent.

And that’s the suffocating part — knowing the world keeps moving, knowing people still laugh and love and live, while I’m stuck in this fog, half here, half somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore.

There’s a strange kind of cruelty in it — to have known touch that made you feel divine, only to be left untouched again. To have known what it’s like to be loved in a way that cracked you open, and now to walk around with all your cracks showing, waiting for someone to look at you and not turn away.

I tell myself I’m worthy of love. I repeat it like a mantra. But some days, I don’t believe it. Some days, I just want someone to prove it — not with words, but with presence. With hands. With stillness.

Until then, I’ll keep walking through the fog, hoping that someday it thins — or maybe that someone will find me here, reach through it, and remind me how it feels to be real again.