Between

The Thing That Lives in the Dark Anxiety lives where no one can see. It curls itself around my thoughts, turning whispers into warnings, turning silence into screams. It tells me that every smile is fake, every goodbye is forever, and every mistake is proof that I was never enough. I wear a calm face, but inside, I'm drowning in storms no one else can hear. The nights are the hardest. The ceiling knows my fears. The clock counts every restless breath. Even the moon looks too far away to reach. Sometimes I wonder if the darkness will become my home, if I'll forget what light ever felt like. Then— almost unnoticed— a tiny crack appears. Not enough to chase away the shadows, not enough to erase the fear, but enough to let one fragile thread of light find its way in. Hope has never been loud. It doesn't promise easy days. It doesn't silence the darkness. It simply takes my trembling hand and whispers, "Stay." And somehow, on the nights when I feel most lost, that single word is enough to keep me alive until morning.