Despair stands on the balcony, watching the world beyond the glass.It doesn't open the door.It simply stares, frozen in place.And I stand beside it.
It was one of those days when I hadn't spoken a single word.The message threads were empty.There was no one to call.No one waiting on the other end.And no reason to leave the house.
So I stepped out onto the balcony.It felt like the only place in the house that could imitate the world outside.
There were people out there.Cars.Even a stray cat wandered by.Life moved on, indifferent as ever.And I—I felt like a frozen frame from a paused movie.
Despair doesn't speak to me.It just rests its weight on my shoulder.Heavy, slow, silent.
Once, I used to walk down those streets.I used to smile, make plans, wait for someone.But now, I stood behind a clear glass dooras if I no longer belonged to the world I was looking at.
The balcony was narrow.The air felt thin.My thoughts kept drifting outward.
I could open the door if I wanted to.But crossing the threshold felt impossibly far.
Despair stays a long time.It doesn't leave.It waits—until I stop calling it despair.
That day,I stood there for a while,just watching the outside.And a quiet thought passed through me.
If a feeling stays this long,maybe it has taken root inside me.
And for the first time,I whispered to it,"Please leave one day."
That was the momentsomething inside mebegan to move again.