There’s always one light that stays on longer than the rest, one soft glow in a high window that endures even after the last commuter has gone home, after the city has dimmed to a quiet hum, after the world decides it’s done for the day, and it’s in this lonely beam of artificial light that a certain type of truth resides—the truth of those
In every conversation that trails off into silence, in every glance that fails to meet the eye, in every text left unanswered and every promise quietly broken, there are echoes—echoes of the unsaid, of the things we wanted to express but could not, of the needs we tried to disguise with a smile, and it is in these echoes that a certain kind of lo
There is a kind of silence that lingers not in the absence of sound but in the presence of too many unanswered questions, a silence that accumulates between the spaces of daily routines, responsibilities, and relationships that fail to nourish, and it is in this silence that the weight of waiting begins to grow, pressing against the chest like an i