The Stillness of a Dark Lake

It feels like standing at the edge of a dark, still lake. The water isn’t moving, yet it holds something beneath its surface—something heavy, something unseen. There’s no wind, no ripples, just a deep, quiet presence that lingers. It doesn’t pull, doesn’t drag, but it’s there, settling into my chest, weighing down my thoughts.

Today feels like that lake. Calm, yet suffocating in its silence. I don’t feel sad in the way that makes you cry or break down. It’s something else—something slower, something deeper. A quiet despair that doesn’t scream, doesn’t demand attention. It just hums softly, just enough to be felt, just enough to make everything feel distant.

The past drifts in like fallen leaves on the water’s surface. Sanji. Shah. Zul. The harsh moments, the things I tried to forget. They don’t crash in, don’t overwhelm me all at once. They just float there, one by one, slowly filling the lake, making the water darker, heavier. Wonders, what-ifs, all the things I wished had gone differently—they don’t hurt in the usual way today. They just exist, lingering in the stillness, quietly pressing against me.

And then, my father. Not anger, not even pain—just an understanding so cold it feels like standing in deep water. The reality that he was never on my side, that he never will be. It should be simple. It should be something I’ve already come to terms with. But today, it turns into a wish. A quiet, impossible wish. What if things had been different? What if he had been different? What if I had that kind of love, the kind that doesn’t leave questions, the kind that doesn’t make you wonder if you were ever truly enough?

It’s strange how days like this happen without warning. There’s no reason, no trigger—just the slow, creeping weight of everything I thought I had moved past. And now, I stand at the edge of this dark lake, staring into the water, knowing it will never reflect back the answers I’m looking for.