But honey, how many wounds can you show to this world? How many wars? How many battlegrounds? You get tired of bleeding in front of people. Tired of sharing your scars, tired of bandaging your wounds alone. You get tired of asking for help. Even your pain gets tired. And people… they always get tired.

There’s a grief so deep it doesn’t scream. It just sits inside you like a dull blade — slicing slowly inch by inch, deliberate cuts no one can see. You wake up every day dragging that weight, breathing like it’s a punishment.

The world moves, people laugh, time flows — but you? You’re frozen in a place where nothing grows, where nothing heals. You start to forget what it feels like to be okay. You forget how lightness feels. You forget yourself.

And no one notices the way you’re fading — because you’re still standing, still breathing. But inside… you’re not alive. You’re just here — carrying a body that feels like a coffin.

And the worst part? No one ever buries you. Because you’re not dead enough to mourn, not alive enough to matter. You become a ghost in your own skin — unheard, unseen, unloved. The world only grieves what’s gone, never what’s breaking. And you… you’re breaking in silence, dying in doses, while everyone else just calls it surviving.

— Sadia Hakim 

Read more here: What if you are not meant to make it happen?