The worst part of fading away is how loud the silence gets. You sit in a room where the dust settles on you like snow, a slow burial while you’re still breathing. The clock on the wall doesn’t tick; it counts down, stripping away pieces of your life until you are nothing but an echo in an empty space. You watch the sun rise and set through the glass, a cruel reminder that the universe keeps moving, entirely unbothered by the fact that you have stopped.
You look at your phone, a smooth, dead piece of glass that never lights up. The people who share your blood the ones who are supposed to hold your hand when the dark gets too heavy have simply closed the door on you. You are a memory to them while your heart is still beating. You realize, with a devastating clarity, that you could sit in this chair for weeks, slipping quietly out of existence, and their lives wouldn’t lose a single beat. They wouldn’t miss your voice because they’ve already learned to live with the silence. You are a ghost haunting a family that has already forgotten you died.
Your body understands the futility before your mind does. The kitchen is a cold, terrifying vault. The smell of food makes your throat close up, a visceral rejection of life. You look at a plate and see nothing but an obligation to prolong a punishment. Your ribs are beginning to trace patterns against your skin, a skeletal map of your isolation, but the hunger doesn’t hurt anymore. The starvation inside your chest is so massive that it has swallowed everything else. You just sit there, hollowed out, watching your own slow evaporation, fully aware that no one is coming to save you, and no one will cry when you are gone.
— Notes to no one.