It didn’t arrive like a storm. It arrived like weather that never cleared.
I still went to work. I still answered messages. People said I looked fine, and I agreed with them because arguing took energy I didn’t have. Mornings started with a weight already on my chest before my eyes opened. The alarm was just another sound I had to survive. I’d lie there counting the reasons to get up rent, messages, the fact that staying down would make tomorrow worse and none of them felt like reasons. They felt like orders.
Food lost its point. I’d stand in the kitchen holding a plate and forget why I was holding it. Sleep turned into long stretches of nothing, then short stretches of waking up already tired. Small tasks grew teeth. Replying to a text could take an hour of staring. A shower felt like a project. I started canceling plans with excuses that were half true: tired, busy, next week. Next week kept moving.
The worst part wasn’t sadness. It was the flatness. Music I used to love played and I waited for the feeling that used to come with it. Nothing came. Friends laughed and I smiled a second late. I told myself I was just in a phase. Phases end. This one didn’t. At night the same thought circled: this is permanent, and no one can see it because I’m still performing the outline of a life.
I stopped expecting the day to feel different. I only tried to get through it without anyone asking if I was okay, because I didn’t have a short answer.