Some days it feels like the light lost your forwarding address. like it got distracted by someone more deserving. Like gravity called in reinforcements. Like the air gained weight overnight and no one told your lungs. Like the world is happening in another room, and you've lost the key.

You wake up tired. Go to sleep tired. And in between, you expertly impersonate a functioning human. Polite. Efficient. Quiet. A+ performance. Oscar-worthy invisibility.

Nothing hurts, exactly. But nothing feels good either. The sky could be falling or shining you wouldn't know the difference.

You stop texting back. (They probably didn't notice.) You stop asking questions. (Answers were overrated anyway.) You stop hoping. Not dramatically, of course this is no grand collapse. Just a slow fade like the background music in a store closing down.

You smile. You work. You say "I'm just tired." And no one knows that you mean tired in a way that sleep can't fix.

Some days everything feels so far away. Like joy is a language you used to speak but forgot. Like maybe you were never fluent to begin with.

But beneath the static, under the sarcastic commentary, there's a soft, inconvenient truth:

This isn't permanent. Even if it has excellent stamina. Even if it keeps showing up uninvited and underdressed.

There will be a moment. Maybe not a movie montage but a flicker. A laugh that sounds like it came from you. A second that doesn't ask for anything back. A feeling that arrives without needing to be fixed.

Because even the worst guests eventually leave.