The Fading

Somewhere along the way, the edges blurred.
Not all at once—no, that would have been merciful—
but slowly, like ink bleeding through old paper,
like fog swallowing the road
you swore you once knew by heart.

You were sharp once.
Electric.
The world bent toward you,
or maybe you bent toward it,
spinning wild with the promise
that something out there was meant to be yours.

But now—
now the days hum the same note,
a song you can’t remember learning,
but one your body sings anyway.

There is no tragedy in it.
No grand collapse.
Just the dull erosion of once-burning things.

You wonder if the fire is still there,
somewhere beneath the layers of grocery lists,
late-night emails,
the careful math of days stretched too thin.
You wonder if it was ever there at all.

And just as the thought takes root,
just as the ache settles deep enough to call itself home,
something small cuts through—

the sound of your child,
half-asleep, whispering your name like a spell,
like you are the answer to something
they don’t yet know to question.

The way the streetlights flicker against the pavement
on a drive too late for anyone to be awake,
reminding you of some lost summer
when you swore you’d never forget
what it felt like to be endless.

The way she laughs—
not just with her mouth,
but with her whole body,
as if joy is something that should take up space.

And for a moment—
a single, impossible moment—
the blur sharpens.
The fog lifts.
And you are here.

Not lost.
Not fading.
Not waiting for something bigger.

Just here.
And for now,
for this breath,
for this fleeting second where the world makes sense—
it is enough.