I’m Not Sure Why I’m Writing This

I guess people write these things to clear their heads.
Mine hasn’t been clear for a long time.

Lately I’ve been remembering things I shouldn’t. Small details. A hotel room. A letter that shouldn’t exist. A voice I keep hearing when everything gets quiet. I tell myself it’s just stress, or a dream I haven’t fully woken up from, but the truth slips through anyway.

I walked by the lake earlier today. The mist was thicker than usual, even for this town. It felt like everything around me was waiting. Not watching… just waiting. I don’t know what for. Maybe I do know, and I just don’t want to admit it.

There was a shape on the water for a moment. Looked like someone standing on the pier. When I got closer, no one was there. Maybe I’m seeing things. Maybe the fog’s just playing tricks on me. I keep telling myself that.

People ask why I came back here. I still say it’s because of the letter. I still say I’m looking for her. Saying it out loud feels wrong now, like repeating a line from a play I was never supposed to be in.

Sometimes I think I should turn around and leave. Go back to whatever life I had before all this. But every time I try, something pulls me deeper into this place. Like the town has its own gravity.

If she’s really here, I have to know.
If she’s not… I have to face that too.

I don’t know who will ever read this. Maybe no one. Maybe it’s better that way. I just needed to put these thoughts somewhere other than my head.

The fog’s getting thicker again. I should go.

— James