I felt it before it happened

Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m standing still while everything around me is shifting ... quietly, slowly, like sand slipping under my feet. Nothing dramatic, nothing you would notice if you weren’t paying attention. But I feel it. And it’s loud in my head.

It’s the kind of change you don’t talk about. The one that creeps in through closed doors. You wake up and suddenly your routines don’t fit anymore, your safe spaces feel unfamiliar, and even your own reflection feels like it’s halfway into something you didn’t prepare for.

People are moving on. Places are emptying out. Conversations feel like they’re nearing their final scene. And all you can do is watch.

There’s nothing particularly wrong. No tragedy. Just this strange ache of letting go of things that aren’t even fully gone yet.

I have been telling myself, you will be okay. Maybe not today. But eventually. Because I have this habit of surviving. Quietly, stubbornly, with or without applause.

And sometimes that’s enough.

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