If my silence could speak

Hard days have passed.

But what really scares me is the thought that maybe the truly hard days haven’t even come yet. That idea hollows me out inside. I keep praying—begging, really—that they don’t come anytime soon. Let me stay here a little longer, in this place of distance and unanswered hopes and small, cheap heartbreaks. Let me still cry over silly things and people who never truly mattered.

Because what does it even mean—what someone did or didn’t do—when the people I love are still here with me?

God, please keep them safe. For me. And keep me safe for them.

That’s all I want lately.

Actually, I want many things. But not with desperation anymore.

If they come, great. If not… well, that’s fine too. What can I do?

I’m trying to write at least 600 words so I can post something on Vocal Media, but it’s hard.

It really is—especially when you have to translate your mother tongue into English.

Two years went by like a storm. I’m not even sure if I should say “those were the days” or not. But I do remember that night.

It was around 2 a.m.

The phone in the ward rang. I picked it up. And that’s when it all started. Or maybe that’s when everything really ended. That one unexpected call somehow unraveled everything. That was the beginning of my tiredness. The beginning of giving up, piece by piece.

But maybe… just maybe… it all happened exactly the way it was meant to.

Who knows? We’ve never really understood God’s plans—why would this time be any different?

I just want everything to stay peaceful now.

Even though I know life doesn’t work that way.

But I still hope—I hope God protects us all.

And that He doesn’t plan on breaking us again anytime soon.

I want brighter days.

Days when everyone I love is doing really well.

Because when they’re okay, I’m okay—even if I’m carrying a bit of sadness inside.

When they’re safe, the weight on my chest becomes lighter.

This deep attachment I have to the people I love—how much my emotions depend on theirs—is maybe starting to feel a little unhealthy.

Maybe I should see a therapist.

But therapy costs money.

It takes time.

I have neither right now.

And I don’t think this is the kind of thing that goes away after a session or two.

I feel like it goes way back.

It’s rooted deep somewhere inside me, and probably needs proper unpacking, with someone who really knows how to do that.

The thing is, I’m still not sure.

Is this level of emotional dependency normal, or is it something broken?

Sometimes I think it’s completely valid.

Other times, it feels irrational and unbalanced.

Like I’ve somehow tied my entire being to others.

Though honestly, from the outside, I doubt anyone would ever guess.

I hide it well.

It’s now 2:50 a.m.

I’m on shift.

Break time is coming soon, and I’ll get to lie down for a bit.

But before I wrap things up and get ready to rest, I wanted to finish this piece.

There’s not much more to say.

I guess all I really wanted to write was this:

Don’t take life too seriously.

Appreciate what you have before it’s gone.

But that doesn’t mean you stop dreaming, or stop chasing what matters.

It doesn’t mean you never grieve.

Because life is all of it—

the gaining, the losing, the hurting, the healing.

And it’s all so very, very short.

And in the end. Sorry for my grammer mistakes. I am not good in english enough.