It’s terrifying how quickly you’ve become part of my every day. I barely knew you yesterday, and yet now, it feels like I’ve always known the sound of your voice, the way your presence settles into the spaces around me. It didn’t take months or years—it only took days, maybe even hours, for you to slip into my life like you belonged here all along. And that scares me more than I want to admit.
Because when you’re gone, when the silence starts to spread through the room, it’s unbearable. The world doesn’t sound the same anymore. The quiet isn’t peaceful—it’s violent. It claws at me, presses against my chest until I can barely breathe. I’ve never hated silence until now. I never realized how cruel it could be.
I’m not used to not hearing your voice before I close my eyes. That last moment of the day, when everything is supposed to wind down and feel whole, just feels broken without you. The darkness feels incomplete, like someone cut the night in half and left me stranded in the empty part. And I lie there, wide awake, replaying the way you said my name, wishing I could catch even a single echo of it before I fall asleep.
And maybe this isn’t healthy, maybe it’s too much too soon, but I can’t help it. My mind keeps reaching for you like a reflex, like it’s already been trained to need you. And when I can’t find you, when I can’t hear you, I start to feel like I’m unraveling—like if this silence stretches too long, I’ll lose my grip on myself.
It’s terrifying, this closeness. Terrifying, how someone can become essential in such a short amount of time. And yet, I can’t pull back. I don’t want to. I just want to hear your voice again.
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