
In a house filled with voices,
She moves through rooms as if
The air thickens around her steps.
There is warmth, but not hers to hold—
Not yet, maybe never.
The table is set,
Chairs pulled out like silent invitations,
But some seats belong to those
Whose names are carved in the wood.
She takes her place,
Only half of herself resting on the cushion.
There are glances,
Quick and sharp,
Not sharp enough to pierce,
But enough to remind her
Of what she already knows—
She is a guest,
Even when they call her by name.
Sometimes, the walls listen,
Echoing her breath back to her,
A whisper of something unsaid.
She holds it in her hands,
This fragment of belonging,
Turning it over, looking for the edges,
But they are always just out of reach.
And when the night settles,
She traces her steps across the floor,
Unseen paths through familiar places,
Wondering if footsteps ever truly leave a mark
When the ground beneath them
Never gives.
If you or somebody you know is going through something difficult, consider reaching our Support and Engage verticals for affordable and inclusive help!
Like our content? Please show us some support by sharing and up-voting!
Image Credits: Unsplash