I do not know what to call this feeling. It is not sorrow, nor is it joy—just a quiet, restless hum between the two. A hollowed-out space where emotions linger but refuse to take shape.
Tonight, the air is thick with longing. Not a sharp, piercing ache, but a dull, persistent whisper: I miss you. I miss all of you. The ones who fill the rooms of my home with warmth, the ones who exist now only in memory. Their absence is a quiet tide, pulling at the edges of me.
And so I wonder—can tears be both an admission and a defiance? Can I let them fall, salt-streaked and honest, and still call myself strong? Perhaps strength is not in the absence of trembling, but in the courage to tremble and stand.
This night will pass. The weight will shift. But for now, I let myself feel it all—the missing, the almost-sadness, the almost-joy—and in that surrender, maybe I find something like peace.
farkleberry 