While the World Moves

The world moves forward with a kind of indifferent grace.

Cities breathe.

People evolve.

New stories begin,

while mine feels like it stopped somewhere between

who I was and who I should have become.

I exist in a strange kind of stillness—

not peace, but paralysis.

It’s like my mind is suspended

in the aftermath of everything I never healed from.

The days pass,

but I don’t.

I watch life unfold around me

with the quiet awareness of someone

who’s been left behind.

Everyone is so loud in their becoming—

so fluent in moving on—

and I am here,

still translating the language of loss

into something I can live with.

Every morning, I wake up and wear composure

like a uniform.

I laugh at the right moments,

nod when people talk,

pretend my chest doesn’t ache

from everything I keep unspoken.

Because vulnerability, nowadays,

feels like a performance

no one really watches.

There’s a kind of loneliness

that comes from being surrounded by sound

but unheard within it.

And when I try to speak,

the words dissolve before they reach air—

because needing to be understood

has started to feel like begging.

People say time heals,

but I think time just teaches you

how to hide the wound more elegantly.

It teaches you endurance—

how to stand in the ruins

and call it stability.

The world keeps moving,

and I keep pretending to.

But inside,

I am still there—

in that frozen hour,

with the echo of everything I lost

repeating itself quietly,

like background noise

in a life that refuses to pause.