Time and light were stripped away, and yet I could still feel it passing. See the light through the thin, barred window up above, barely enough to illuminate this cell.
The ache I felt wasn't merely physical, it was everything.
I had lived inside shadow once—this was not that.
This was empty. This was soulless.
My body knew stillness too well,
held in a way that was not rest,
taught where it was allowed to exist
Even breath felt measured,
as if the air itself waited for permission.
I reached inward instead—
to faces I carried by memory alone,
to voices that lived just beyond recall,
to the weight of belonging
I could no longer feel against my side.
I did not ache for freedom first.
For the simple truth of being known,
for the quiet assurance of shared space,
for love that still existed
even when it could not reach me.
And that was the cruelest part—
And still, something in me listened—
but for the faint possibility
that lived beneath knowing better.
I learned the sound of waiting,
the weight of moments stretched thin,
the dread of time doing its work
while I remained unchanged—
from those who would have known
They became a presence I carried inward,
a warmth remembered rather than felt,
a light that did not enter this place
between asking and endurance,
between shadow and something unnamed,
