Half-Alive

There are stretches of my life
not lost,
but uninhabited—
rooms I walked through
without ever arriving.

I was there,
in theory.
Flesh and bone,
task and tick-box.
I passed for living.
But I was only ever
performing the echo
of a self
I couldn’t find.

Depression isn’t dramatic.
It’s not the storm,
but the suffocating stillness after—
a hush so dense
it drowns the sound
of your own heartbeat.

It dresses itself in routine.
In smiling photos.
In I’m just tired.

It lets you laugh
just enough
to make them believe
you’re still in there.

But your soul—
your soul is folded small,
tucked into some quiet,
airless corner,
where even the light
forgets to look.

You learn to become
convincing.
You learn to walk
like your weight is natural,
like your name still fits,
like your hands
haven’t forgotten
how to hold anything
without shaking.

And then—
without warning,
a crack.

Not salvation.
Just a hairline fracture
in the greyness.

A glint.
A breath that doesn’t burn.
A hunger
you thought you’d buried
beneath the ash.

And maybe it’s nothing.
Or maybe it’s the beginning.

Maybe this is what it means
to resurface.

To stretch again
toward warmth
like roots remembering
they belong to the earth.

To feel
not better—
but possible.

Maybe this is how
you become whole
after years
of haunting yourself.