DARK WHISPERS SERIES

Some days I wake up tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

The kind that feels like I’ve been carrying an invisible weight in my chest, dragging it through every room I walk into.

It’s always there—like a background hum I can’t turn off.

There’s no big trauma. No breaking news moment. Just a slow unraveling.

I forget to reply to messages. Not because I don’t care—because I don’t have the energy to care out loud.

I avoid calls. I put off things that used to feel simple.

I scroll endlessly not to be entertained but to distract myself from the silence that keeps getting louder.

I don’t cry dramatically.

I don’t punch walls or scream into pillows.

My sadness isn’t loud—it’s quiet.

It seeps into the way I pour my coffee, the way I stare at walls, the way I laugh and immediately feel hollow after.

People don’t notice because I show up. I smile when I need to. I say “I’m good” out of muscle memory.

I just don’t feel like I’m fully here.

And that disconnection? That’s the part that scares me.

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Some days I sit in the shower too long.

Not crying. Not thinking. Just… existing under hot water like it might rinse the weight off me.

Other days I clean the whole room obsessively—not because I feel good, but because it’s the only thing I can control.

That’s the pattern: numb, overstimulated, exhausted, then repeat.

It’s chaos that doesn’t look like chaos.

It’s a storm in slow motion.

It’s smiling with tired eyes and no one asking why.

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People say “talk to someone,” and I want to.

I do.

But even putting it into words feels like work.

And sometimes, silence feels easier than trying to make my feelings sound logical.

This isn’t a story about healing.

There’s no big lesson.

No breakthrough.

Just honesty.

The kind I’ve been scared to say out loud.

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If this is you too, I don’t have advice.

But I see you.

Sometimes surviving the day is enough.

Sometimes chaos doesn’t roar.

Sometimes it whispers.

And sometimes… we whisper back.

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And the thing is…

Sometimes I believe it for a second.

Until the silence reminds me I’m not.

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I call it soft chaos because nothing around me is visibly broken.

The dishes are mostly done.

The bills are paid.

I even post on social media sometimes.

But inside? It’s a slow-motion disaster.

Thoughts pile up like unopened mail.

Feelings I haven’t processed knock against each other like clutter in a small room.

There’s no one big reason.

Just a million small ones that I can’t explain without sounding dramatic or ungrateful.

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Some nights I stare at the ceiling and wonder if I’m disappointing people just by existing like this—muted, low-energy, half-there.

I cancel plans and feel relieved, then guilty.

I don’t talk about it because I’m afraid of being misunderstood. Or worse—pitied.

So I write things I never send.

I play the same songs on repeat because they feel like company.

I romanticize coffee shops and rainy days, not because I’m poetic, but because it helps me pretend that maybe this fog is aesthetic, not debilitating.

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No one teaches you how to survive a sadness that doesn’t have a name.

It’s not depression.

It’s not grief.

It’s something in between.

A soft collapse.

I can still function.