I wish they were real ( again ) ( poem )

Last year,
I wanted them to come through my window—
to hold my shaking hands,
to lift me up and carry me away
from the darkness that swallowed every breath.

I was drowning,
cutting seconds into pain so sharp
I could feel something—
anything but the endless silence inside.

I begged for escape,
for wings, for flight, for anything
that meant not here, not this skin,
not this ache that never stopped.

But this year—
I don’t want to fly.
I don’t want to run or disappear.

I want them to stay.
To sit beside the broken pieces of me,
to hold space without asking why I’m falling apart.

I want N’s quiet presence—
a lighthouse in my storm.
V’s steady warmth—
a soft hand on my chaos.
J’s patient eyes—
that see the cracks but don’t turn away.

I don’t need saving anymore.
I just need someone real,
someone here,
to carry this with me—
because some days,
even breathing feels too heavy alone.

I wish they were real.
Not to fly me away,
but to be the reason I keep standing.