The room is still, draped in the haze of twilight. A strange comfort rests here, in the in-between, when daylight surrenders to night and shadows become memories that press against the walls. The air feels like silk against my skin—soft, familiar, yet strangely suffocating. It reminds me of him. Of the moments when his laughter cut through silence like an unexpected beam of light, flooding everything, making it feel less haunted. He was the embodiment of brilliance, his warmth wrapped around me like cashmere in a winter storm.

I remember the way his hand would settle on my arm—a touch that was both casual and deeply intimate. It wasn’t the touch itself but the intention behind it, an act that felt like it was claiming me and grounding me in a world I struggled to stay present in. His presence was effortless, the kind that filled every empty space without trying. He was magnetic, beautiful, flawless in every sense of the word—everything I could never be.

For him, the world was a fabric he could weave himself into, creating beauty with each thread. He was that rare individual who could navigate it all, even when the seams felt like they were pulling apart. And me? I could barely hold it together. My life was a garment frayed at the edges, patched with poorly-stitched lies I’d tell myself—that I was enough, that I could be better, that the darkness could be kept at bay. But the truth always seeped through, no matter how I tried to embroider over it.

It was my hubris that ruined it. I convinced myself that I was stronger than the shadows that tugged at my thoughts, that I could be what he deserved. I became obsessed with the illusion of control, the mask I wore becoming a fragile barrier between what I wanted to be and what I actually was. But masks crack, and so did mine. I could see it in his eyes when the distance started growing between us—like a crease that deepened into a full tear, impossible to mend.

One day, he left. There were no dramatic confrontations, no desperate declarations—just a sigh as he turned away, the softness of his footsteps disappearing down the hallway. I’d like to say that I called after him, that I tried to hold him back, but I didn’t. My pride was too heavy, and my fear of failure too vast. It’s funny how much we can destroy in the name of keeping ourselves whole.

Now, the quiet stretches endlessly. The beauty of the world feels like it’s behind a veil I can’t touch. I exist, but only just—a living shell, held together by the fragile sense that if I don’t move too much, I won’t fall apart. There’s still the echo of him everywhere, like the aftertaste of a fleeting perfume. I sometimes think I’m past it, but then something will shift, some detail that brings him back—the sharpness of the winter air, the softness of a particular fabric—and I’m back at the beginning, mourning someone I never deserved to love.

The TV glows in the corner, a faint light in an otherwise dark room. The screen’s blue casts dim shadows, the figures muted and blurred. I haven’t unplugged it yet—and maybe I won’t. A sign that somewhere inside, there’s still a part of me that’s fighting, a flicker, however faint. It’s dim, I know. But sometimes, dim is enough to see by—enough to find my way forward, however slowly, however imperfectly. Survival isn’t about thriving. Tt’s just about keeping the TV plugged in.