THE SOUND OF BEING DEPRESSED

While everyone else was living their life in colour, depression froze me in place I watched birthdays pass through windows, heard laughter like a radio in another room. My hands knew the weight of blankets, not the lift of a glass or the grip of a bike. Healing didn’t arrive as fireworks, it was the small yes , opening curtains, texting back, making tea before it went cold. Now colour seeps in at the edges, not all at once, but enough to remind me: I’m still here, and the world hasn’t finished with me yet.