The whole place reeks. Of linseed oil. Of dust. Of surrender.
I drop to the floor, back against the wall, knees up, palms pressed over my face. My fingers smell like graphite and sweat.
My eyes sting. I don’t know if it’s from frustration or fumes or the fact that I’m so tired of trying to claw my way back to a version of myself that feels like it died without warning.
I thought sketching would help. I thought maybe I could bleed the ache out onto paper. But everything I draw looks wrong. Flat. Soulless. Like it was made by someone impersonating me but doing a really shitty job.
Even my dumb little punk skeleton, the one I’ve doodled in the margins of every notebook since high school, looks fake. Like a parody. Like someone else’s nostalgia dressed in my skin.
I tried running this morning, hoping maybe if I got my heart pounding, I could outrun whatever’s sunk its claws into me. I didn’t even make it around the block before my chest clenched and my lungs gave up.
Every step felt like I was dragging concrete, every breath like I was inhaling molasses. I came back in sweaty, pissed off, and more tangled up than before.
Then I tried putting on one of my comfort shows. The kind I usually curl up to with snacks and a hoodie, the ones where I know every scene by heart.
But the jokes just sat there, stale and echoey. The colors felt too bright, too fake. Like I was watching someone else’s happiness through a window I couldn’t open.
Nothing is working.
Nothing feels right.
It’s like I’m watching my identity erode in real time, one failed attempt at normalcy after another.
And the worst part is, I don’t even know who I am without this. Without the art. Without the movement. Without the stupid little sketches that used to make me laugh, or the canvases I used to get lost in for hours.
Everything I used to lean on feels brittle now. Hollow. Like I could press on it and watch it crack apart in my hands.
I don’t feel like a person.
I feel like static in a skin suit.
And the more I try to pull myself out of this fog, the deeper I seem to sink. Like I’m clawing through wet cement. Like I’mlosingmyself, piece by piece, and no one even sees it happening.
Or worse… maybe they do.
And they’re letting me disappear anyway.
Now I’m face down on my bed, half buried under blankets, scrolling through social media because apparently I enjoy torturing myself.
I tell myself I’m just bored. I tell myself I’m notactuallylooking for them.
But I’m totally looking for them.
Bruno’s page is first. Of course it is. He’s smiling in his latest post, kneeling next to a massive German Shepherd at some park event, the caption something wholesome and on brand like, “Rex is the real MVP.”
I stare at his smile for way too long, trying to ignore the pinch in my chest.
Next is Thomas. He’s posted a video of himself skating down a hill wearing a glittery cowboy hat and nothing else but boxers and knee pads. I laugh despite myself.
The comments are unhinged, as usual. Someone called him “chaotic good in human form.” Again, accurate.
Then Rowan. His post is from a few days ago, just a moody black and white shot of the ranch. Fog rolling over the fields, shadows stretching long. No caption, no explanation. Justhim, basically.
I let my phone fall onto my chest and stare up at the ceiling.
I miss them.
God, I miss them.
