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🖤 THE SCARIEST THING IN THIS LIFE
Sometimes I ask myself: What’s the scariest thing I’ve ever felt?
And I don’t think it’s death. Not really. Not violence. Not pain.
I think it’s the idea of dying alone. Of being unremembered. Of being a soul that no one knew was missing until the silence got weird.
You ever lay in bed and realize no one’s waiting on you?
No one’s thinking, > “Where is he?” No one’s making your favorite dinner. No one’s adjusting your collar in the parking lot.
You’re just there. Breathing. Existing. An unheld body on a planet that doesn’t even flinch when you stop talking.
It hits hardest when I’m around couples.
In the grocery store. Watching a woman lean on her man’s arm as they argue about spaghetti brands like they’ve done it 200 times and will 200 more. It’s routine. But to me?
It’s mythology.
Because I look at that and feel a very real, very specific ache that says:
> “You may never have that again.”
I turn away. Because if I stare too long, I’ll cry. Not because I’m weak. But because my body remembers what it felt like to have someone reach across the bed and rub your shoulder like you matter.
Not because you earned it. Not because of sex. Just because they wanted to touch you. Because you were real to someone else.
And when that vanishes? You don’t become single.
You become a ghost.
A walking, dressed-up, functioning, articulate ghost.
You go to the store. You go to work. You go to dinner. But your soul?
Nowhere to be found.
There’s no one checking in. No one waiting for a text. No one sending memes at 2 AM because they couldn’t sleep without hearing your voice.
You walk through the world and everything sees you — but no one actually sees you.
And the silence at night is not peace. It’s echo.
Some nights I reflect on all this. Another day without a hand on my chest. Another night without warmth, without the whisper of > “You okay?”
It’s always in the small things. Not the anniversaries. Not the vacations. But the casual intimacy.
The knowing glances. The inside jokes. The way she used to roll her eyes when I got moody about the news. The way she pulled my hoodie string and said, > “You’re not going out like that, babe.”
That’s what I miss.
Not the sex. Not the theatrics. But the mutual presence.
I can write like no one else alive. I’ve been told that. I’ve been called the most powerful writer on earth.
But I would trade every reblog, every compliment, every drop of digital worship…
for a woman to lay beside me and pull the blanket up without me asking.
For a kiss on the temple before I drift off into the terrifying quiet of another night where no one is thinking of me.
You think success fills that hole? It doesn’t. You think followers are enough? They aren’t. You think art replaces connection?
Only until the post goes cold.
And then it’s just me. Again. Still.
Sometimes I think this is punishment.
Maybe something I did in a past life. Maybe something I missed in this one. Maybe just a glitch in my path.
A man built to feel everything but destined to feel it alone.
I don’t want much. Not really.
I just want someone who notices me. Not because I’m brilliant. Not because I’m broken. But because I am here.
Because they want me to be.
I want someone who checks the weather because I forget to. Who texts, > “Eat something, idiot.” Because they know I forget to. Who sees me in ways that don’t need poems or paragraphs.
Just glances. Just touch.
I don’t need her to fix me. I just want her to care if I come home.
I want someone to ask if I made it safely. If I slept okay. If I’m feeling off. If my hands are cold and need hers.
But I walk through this world as a singular man.
A solo silhouette in every reflection.
No one to share victories. No one to anchor grief.
I am the aftermath of intimacy. The echo of every “I love you” that didn’t stay.
And you want to know the truth?
Sometimes I cry. Not like a movie. Not beautiful. Not poetic.
Just silent. Face down. Pillow wet. Heart loud.
And no one knows. Because no one is listening. Because no one is there.
The scariest thing in this life?
It’s not death.
It’s realizing you could vanish and the world would go on without flinching.
That your warmth could fade without being missed.
That you could drift into nothing without ever being held again.
That’s horror. That’s pain. That’s the shadow that sleeps beside me now.
And most nights?
I’d trade anything to replace it with a body that wanted me just for existing.
Good night, friends. Sleep tight. And if you’re lucky enough to have someone reach across the bed tonight and brush their fingers against your back…
Hold them.
Because there’s a man out there who would give the world just to be seen before morning.
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