Afterlight

lately, i’ve been thinking about how strange it is to outgrow a life you once begged for.

how something can hold you for years
the people,
the noise,
the late nights,
the attention,
the survival of it all —
until one day your body quietly decides it can no longer carry it the same way.

not dramatically.
not all at once.

just slowly.

the hangovers last longer.
the silence feels louder.
you start leaving places earlier.
you begin craving softness in places you once searched for stimulation.

and somewhere in the middle of all of it,
you realize you are mourning someone who is still technically alive.

i think that’s what this season of my life has felt like.

grieving old versions of myself while still wearing their skin.

there’s a certain loneliness to becoming.
a certain ache to realizing your coping mechanisms once looked a lot like freedom.

for a long time, i mistook movement for healing.
noise for connection.
being desired for being seen.

i kept trying to outrun myself through people, through chaos, through the next night, the next feeling, the next distraction.

but eventually the body keeps score.
eventually the soul asks to come home.

maybe that’s what afterlight is.

the glow that remains after something has already ended.
the warmth left behind after the fire.
the soft haze of a life that no longer fits you, but still lives somewhere inside your bones.

like city lights bleeding through curtains at 4am.
like walking home alone after everyone else has disappeared.
like loving who you were while knowing you cannot survive as him anymore.

lately, i’ve been craving quieter things.

making art again.
slow mornings.
honest connection.
feeling present inside my own body.
becoming someone i don’t need to escape from.

i still don’t fully know who that person is yet.

but for the first time in a long time,
i think i can feel him waiting for me.