The Quiet Collapse of a Galaxy
I haven’t felt okay lately. The past few weeks have been tough—uncertain in ways that quietly creep into your thoughts when you’re trying to rest. It’s mostly work-related, the kind of uncertainty that doesn’t scream but lingers. The kind that sits beside you while you’re answering emails, while you’re pretending to focus, while you’re trying to convince yourself that everything is still manageable. And the strange thing is… I look okay. I laugh at jokes. I reply to messages. I talk to people like nothing’s wrong. If you saw me in passing, you’d probably think I’m fine. Maybe just tired. Maybe just busy. But there’s this quiet emptiness that follows me around like a shadow. It’s subtle but heavy. I feel lost, drained, uncertain—like I’m walking through fog, moving forward without actually knowing where I’m headed. It’s a confusing kind of not-okay. Because I’m not breaking down. I’m not crying every night. I’m not dramatically falling apart. I’m just… functioning. On autopilot. Doing w...