When I was young, waking up was my favorite part of the day. The early light of the morning felt like a gentle invitation. The sun, slowly rising, was like a warm embrace, telling me that today would be another beautiful chapter in my life.
I missed those mornings — the soft rustling of the trees, the quiet hum of the world waking up, the sense that anything could happen. Each day felt like a gift, wrapped in the glow of the sunrise.
But as the years passed, everything changed. A piece of me, the part that once felt so alive, slowly began to fade. It wasn’t sudden, but a gradual dimming of the light that once burned brightly within me.
The morning that I used to look forward to became just another part of the day, a reminder that I had to face the world again.
The sunrises, once full of hope, now felt distant, like they were meant for someone else.
The part of me that died didn’t go quietly. It left a hollow space, a place where felicity used to live. I stayed awake at night, not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t bear the thought of tomorrow.
Nights became my refuge, a time when I could avoid the reality of another day. I would live there, in the darkness, waiting for something to change, the emptiness to go away, and for a piece of me to come back to life.
But no matter how long I waited, that piece never returned. It just stayed there, lifeless, leaving me to wonder if it would ever feel whole again.
As the nights grew longer, I began to miss the part of me that used to love waking up. I missed the girl who saw the world as a place of wonder and believed in each new day’s beauty.
I started thinking about what had happened to her, why she had to leave, and whether she would ever return. Was it the weight of growing up, the pressure to meet expectations, or the slow realization that the world wasn’t as good as I once thought?
Is growing up meant to hurt this much?
Maybe it was all those things slowly wearing down my happiness until nothing was left but the shell of who I used to be.
As I lie awake at night, I find myself wishing for a different life where that piece of me never died. I dream of a time when I can wake up with that excitement when the sunrise feels like a new beginning rather than just another day to get through.
I long for a future, perhaps in another lifetime, where I can look forward to waking up and where each day feels like a gift again.
I hold on to the hope that one day, I will find that piece of me again — the part that loved life and saw beauty in the simplest things. I hope that in another time or place, I will wake up with a heart full of joy and a soul that feels whole once more.
And so, I find myself in this place of twilight, where the sun no longer graces the sky, and the warmth I once knew has faded into a distant memory.
Yet, within the shadows, I still hold onto the faintest glimmer of hope — hope that one day, even after the longest night, the sun will rise again, and with it, the light within me will be reborn.
