It begins in silence,
in the pause between waking and remembering,
where the ceiling holds no answers
and the light feels thinner than it should.

You rise because the world asks you to,
not because it ever explains why.
There are dishes in the sink,
emails unopened,
a door you close behind you
that doesn't feels yours.

Something is always missing.
You can't name it.
It doesn't wear a face or carry a sound.
But it tugs at you,
like a thread sewn into the lining of your ribs,
pulling gentle,insistently, toward elsewhere.

You watch others move with
apparent purpose-
hands folding,eyes meeting,laughter
placed just right-
and you wonder
if they,too,feel the absence,
or if they've simply learned to stop
mentioning it.

The trees offer nothing
but a choreography of stillness.
The sky,that indifferent canopy,
watches with a patience you can't afford.

Sometimes you sit alone in a crowded place,
hoping for something to arrive-
not a person,not a message,
but the thing itself:
the feeling of enoughness,
of belonging to the hour as it passes.

You remember once-
or maybe it was a dream-
a moment when everything fell into place:
a laugh that didn't echo back as empty,
a hand that stayed after the door closed,
a breath that didn't carry weight.

Now,you carry yourself
like a question no one is answering.
The days continue,
punctuated by hunger
that food does not soothe.

You do not know
whether what you seek
is in the next city,
the next year,
or in the parts of yourself
still hiding in shadow.

But you keep walking-
not because you know where you're going,
but because stillness feels like forgetting.
And you are not ready to forget.

You are longing for more.
And that,for now,
is the only map you have.