How to Disappear Without Leaving

How to Disappear Without Leaving

Step One:

Smile like it’s muscle memory.

Not joy, not humor—just mechanics.

You’ll get good at it. So good, they won’t notice the edges cracking.

Step Two:

Learn how to nod.

To agree.

To echo.

To shrink your words down to yes, no, maybe, whatever you want.

Become the echo of someone else’s voice,

until yours becomes a faint outline on the wall.

Step Three:

Wake up every morning and wear yourself like a costume.

Pick the version they expect—

The reliable coworker.

The patient friend.

The functional adult.

Zip it up, smooth out the wrinkles, ignore the tear forming beneath the collar.

Step Four:

Stop being hungry for anything that isn’t survival.

Don’t crave touch.

Don’t crave meaning.

Don’t crave joy.

Just breathe in and out.

Keep your hands busy.

Keep your mind numb.

Eat the same thing.

Watch the same thing.

Feel nothing.

That’s how it starts.

You are still here—technically.

Your name still echoes when they call it.

Your inbox still fills.

Your body still walks and types and texts back with “lol” and “I’m good.”

But you are vanishing.

Not all at once.

Not like a light switch, but like the sun slipping beneath the ocean.

Slow.

Quiet.

Almost beautiful, if it didn’t hurt so much.

People will say, “You’ve been quiet lately.”

Smile. Nod. Shrug.

People will say, “Where have you been?”

Answer, “Around.”

You’ve been right there the whole time, haven’t you?

Sitting at the dinner table.

Staring at your phone.

Holding a conversation you don’t remember five minutes later.

Your soul curled up in some corner of your ribcage,

arms around its knees, rocking gently.

The hardest part is when no one notices.

You’ll drop hints.

Little clues.

You’ll say, “I’m tired,” when you mean “I’m unraveling.”

You’ll say, “I just need a break,” when you mean “I’m breaking.”

But they’ll nod and say, “Same,” and keep scrolling.

Because disappearing is an art,

and you, dear reader, are a master.

Step Five:

Let the light hurt.

Shy away from the sun, from open windows, from phone calls.

Let your body forget how to want anything but sleep.

And not even good sleep—just the blank kind.

Let music stop making sense.

Let silence be safer.

Step Six:

Forget how to cry.

Because the pain isn’t sharp anymore—

it’s just… heavy.

It sits on your chest like a fog.

You’ve been underwater so long,

you forget what breathing air used to feel like.

People will call you strong.

They’ll say, “I don’t know how you do it.”

They don’t see the parts you’ve turned off.

They don’t hear the static in your brain.

They don’t see the messages typed out,

then deleted.

The calls you almost made.

Almost.

You are disappearing,

but your body is still in the photo.

Still tagged.

Still waving.

The version of you they know—

She laughs.

She works hard.

She’s “just been busy.”

That version never screamed into a pillow until her throat gave out.

That version never lay on the bathroom floor,

begging the ceiling to give her a reason.

That version is fine.

Step Seven:

Don’t talk about it.

Because how do you explain disappearing

when your shadow is still there?

How do you explain feeling like a ghost

when no one buried you?

And yet—

Somewhere inside that hollow space,

a whisper remains.

A flicker.

A heartbeat.

A voice, small and fragile and angry.

“I’m still here.”

It doesn’t shout.

It doesn’t even speak.

It just trembles in your bones like a memory.

Maybe one day, you’ll follow it.

Maybe you’ll reach for a hand instead of your phone.

Maybe you’ll eat something different.

Maybe you’ll cry. Finally.

Maybe someone will say, “I see you,”

and you’ll believe them.

But until then—

you will master the vanishing act.

How to disappear,

without leaving.

And hope,

when the time comes,

you know how to come back.