When the Butterflies Died

I want to feel again. Not anger, not sorrow, not the drowning weight of grief. What I long for is to feel love once more—the kind of love that once brushed against my heart, the kind of joy that once stirred butterflies in my stomach. But they seem long dead. Or perhaps they have flown away completely, abandoning this cold body wandering in the shadows of the night.

Sometimes I ask myself: what is the point of returning to the world of emotions if all I can taste is bitterness, rage, and self-loathing? My last memory of love feels like an old film playing endlessly in my mind—the images are blurry, the sound broken, yet the pain it left remains sharp and clear. Nights once filled with laughter now haunt me as ghosts, returning only to remind me of how empty I am today.

I want to feel an embrace again—the kind of embrace where no words are needed, because its warmth alone assures you that you are alive. But how can I receive someone else’s arms when I cannot even wrap my own around myself? Whenever I try, all I feel is coldness, as if I have no body, no soul.

Yes, I want to walk again at night, but not alone. I want to hear dreams whispered into the wind, to sit in the park, to watch a film in the cinema, to visit my favorite places—not with my own shadow, but with someone beside me. Because it is exhausting to walk through this world with only my footsteps echoing back.

Instead, here I am, walking alone—my feet heavy, every step a reminder that no one walks beside me. There is no one to tell, “I’m tired.” So I scream it only in the silence of my mind.

In my room, night after night, I stare at the ceiling, wondering if it would be easier to end it all. Often I feel the cold kiss of darkness whispering, “Enough. Rest now.” The idea of silence is tempting—no pain, no burden, no muffled cries under the pillow. Yet somewhere in the distance, there is a faint voice resisting, almost too weak to hear: “You matter. Someone is waiting for you, even if you do not know who yet.”

Still, the question lingers: what if no one accepts me? What if all my mistakes, all my wounds, all my brokenness are too much for anyone to bear? Who could love a person who cannot even love themselves? Who would embrace me when my arms are covered in scars—not only on the skin, but carved deep into the soul?

And so the painful question remains: am I meant to live alone? Or is surrendering to the silence of death the only answer?

Yet even in this darkness, there is a truth I cannot erase: the heart, no matter how shattered, still beats. It refuses to stop. It continues to search for love, for warmth, for a reason to stay.

Perhaps that is the answer. This is not the end—not yet, though I feel as though I have already died many times inside. For every wound can also become a doorway. Every crack can hold the promise of a new beginning.

But right now, I don’t know if I can. I don’t know when love will come again. I don’t know when the butterflies will return.

All I know is this: no matter how deep the night, there is always a faint trace of hope. And that hope clings to me—that is why, even as I kneel before the quiet face of death, I choose to breathe.

Even weakly, even painfully—I breathe.Because perhaps tomorrow, or some unexpected day, a hand will finally reach out for mine, and a voice will whisper, “I’m here. You are not alone.”