This is stupid but you know that feeling when the air in your apartment just… sits there, heavy and still, and it presses in on you, and it’s not exactly quiet but it’s an emptiness that echoes everything you don’t say? And it’s been weeks, and you’re talking to clients about font choices and color palettes, and you’re emailing and calling and nodding at their little squares on the screen, but it’s all just… work, and it’s not really *you*, and then you realize you haven’t actually spoken out loud to another human being about anything that matters, anything that isn't about deliverables or deadlines, and it feels like the oxygen is getting thinner every day. And it’s not a big deal, but then you’re watching your parent staring at the TV, not really seeing it, and you’re asking for the fifth time if they’ve eaten and they just blink, and you repeat yourself, louder this time, and you feel that tightness in your chest, that familiar knot of frustration and something else, something sharp and hot, and you want to scream, and you want to cry, and you just want someone to look at you and *see* you, and know that you’re drowning a little bit, every single day, and you can’t say it, not to them, not to anyone. Because who would even listen? And the silence just stretches, and stretches, and you’re the only one left to fill it with your own heavy breathing. And you go to the grocery store sometimes, just to be around people, just to hear the hum of other conversations, the clatter of carts, but you don’t actually talk to anyone, and you buy your milk and your bread and you go home, and the same four walls are waiting, and the air is just as still as when you left it, and it feels like a cage sometimes, a beautifully decorated cage with a decent internet connection, but a cage nonetheless, and you just… you just want to punch something, or someone, or maybe just yourself for letting it get this way. And you think about calling your siblings, and you draft the texts in your head – *hey, been a while, how are you, everything’s fine here, just checking in* – but the words feel hollow, and you know what will happen, the vague promises, the busy excuses, the way they just *don't get it*, and so you delete the draft, and you scroll through social media instead, watching other people’s lives unfold in bright, easy squares, and you feel that hot anger bubble up again, and it’s not fair, and it’s not right, and you’re so TIRED of pretending it’s all okay. And then you realize it’s 2 AM, and you’re still sitting here, and the only sound is the whir of the fridge and your own blood rushing in your ears, and you haven't spoken a single word since you told the cat to get off the counter, and that was hours ago, and you just wonder if this is it now, if this is what your life is, just this quiet, aching echo of what you thought it would be, and the emptiness just spreads, and spreads, and it feels like it’s going to swallow you whole.