The past three days have felt like an uphill battle with no summit in sight. Medically overwhelmed, emotionally drained, and somehow, despite all of it, still longing for the one person I wish would just see me—really see me.
Pain has a way of making the world smaller. It shrinks down to the ache in my ribs, the sharp reminders that my body isn't cooperating, the exhaustion that makes even breathing feel like work. And in that small world, the one thing that would make it feel a little less suffocating is knowing that someone notices—not just the struggle, but me.
The person behind it.
Instead, I find myself drowning in a cycle of discomfort and silence, trying to push through because what else is there to do?
Complaining feels pointless.
Explaining feels exhausting.
So, I sit with it, hoping that maybe—just maybe—the right person will see past the "I'm fine" and hear what I'm not saying.
There’s something uniquely painful about feeling invisible to the one person you want to see you. Not just in a passing, surface-level way, but in the way that says, I know you. I see the way you’re hurting. I’m here.
I don’t need solutions. I don’t need someone to fix what can't be fixed. I just need presence. A moment of acknowledgment. A reminder that I’m not carrying all of this alone. But instead, I feel like I’m screaming into a void that refuses to echo back.
Maybe tomorrow will feel lighter. Maybe the pain will ease, my body will feel less like a battleground, and the weight of being unseen won’t press so hard against my chest. But today? Today, I just need to admit that it’s heavy. And that’s okay.
If you’ve ever felt this way—if you’re feeling this way now—I see you. And I hope, even if just for a moment, you feel a little less alone.
From your friendly Omega coded,
Phyre
💙
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