The girl who waited

The world outside kept moving, but she remained still.

Days blurred into nights, and nights into days. She had stopped keeping track of time. It didn't matter anymore. The sun rose, the moon took its place, and she existed somewhere in between—never fully awake, never fully asleep.

She used to love the mornings. Waking up to the sound of birds, the smell of tea from the kitchen, the feeling of a new day waiting to be lived. Now, mornings were just another reminder that she had to get through another day.

She sat by her window, watching people pass by. Some laughed, some talked on their phones, some walked hand in hand. They all had somewhere to be, something to do.

She wondered what it felt like to be needed.

To have someone look forward to seeing you.

To have someone text you just to ask if you're okay.

To have someone notice when your voice fades away.

But no one did.

She walked through her house like a ghost, her footsteps silent. Her parents barely looked up when she entered the room. It wasn't that they didn't love her—she knew they did. But love wasn't always about grand gestures. Sometimes, it was in the little things. And those little things were missing.

She wanted someone to ask her how she was, and actually wait for the answer.

She wanted someone to sit beside her, without her having to ask.

She wanted someone to notice the change in her eyes before she had to explain it.

But maybe that was too much to ask.

So, she stopped asking.

She stopped waiting for someone to check on her. Stopped hoping for someone to knock on her door. She convinced herself that loneliness was easier than disappointment. That being forgotten was better than being an afterthought.

That night, as she lay in bed, she whispered to herself, "Maybe this is just how life is."

The silence didn't argue. It never did.