Hopeless

We built this place together, didn’t we? This ruin of a home where the walls whisper back our names like a haunting. And every night, like clockwork, we lay side by side, brittle bones tucked under thin sheets, our bodies slowly withering into ghosts. The same drum beats over us, night after night—a quiet, dead thud that only we can hear, filling the silence we’ve grown accustomed to. It’s a sound that matches the hollow rhythm in my chest, a heartbeat that feels half-dead, beating only out of habit. And yet, despite all the noise in my mind, you lay there next to me, silent, eyes dull and grey. Just like mine.

Sometimes I think the silence itself is our undoing. That in the stillness, in the unspoken spaces, something monstrous festers. A decay we’ve welcomed, as if it were some old friend we invited into the home we built from every ounce of devotion and self-sacrifice we could muster. We used to laugh here; we used to fill these walls with so much love it felt as if they might burst. But now, I look around and all I see are fragments of us, torn pieces and crumbling corners, paint chipping from every memory we once held dear. Every mark in these walls feels like a reminder of what we’ve lost, like scars on a body that’s long since stopped healing.

There’s an ashtray on the bedside table, a monument to our quiet decay. It’s filled with the remains of us, the grey dust of nights we smoked through in silence, each flick of ash a new grave marker. And the bed we share? It’s not a bed anymore; it’s a coffin. Every night, we lay down in it, dying a little more beside each other, eyes closed against a truth neither of us can speak. How did it come to this? How did love turn into this cycle of resentment and longing, a slow descent into a darkness so familiar that I almost can’t imagine life without it?

I find myself begging—hoping you’ll say something, anything to give me reason to believe. To show me that I mean something to you, that I’m not just a relic of a love that’s long since faded. But you stay silent, and I am left with the truth I’ve tried so hard to ignore: you don’t care enough to fight for this, for us. Maybe you never did. And the worst part? I can’t even admit this truth to myself. I lie to myself in the quiet moments, convincing myself that you’re still here, that you still care, but all the while, a deeper part of me knows I’m just whispering to a heart that stopped listening a long time ago.

Hopeless. That’s what I am. I sit here, running circles in my own mind, begging for some kind of help I know will never come. I talk to myself, trying to shake loose the grip you have on my heart, but it’s like I’m speaking a foreign language—my heart doesn’t understand, or maybe it just refuses to listen. And isn’t that the cruelest irony? That I’m trapped in this hopeless spiral, reaching out for a lifeline that doesn’t exist, knowing that no one, not even myself, can pull me out of this wreckage we’ve made.

I’m tired—God, I’m so tired of this feeling. It’s like a weight pressing down on my chest, suffocating me slowly. And yet, I can’t bring myself to let you go. Every part of me is terrified of what comes after, of the emptiness that will settle in once I finally admit that we’re done. And so I cling to this feeling, to the misery and the numbness, because at least it’s something. At least it’s a connection to you, however bitter and broken it may be.

But there are days—moments, really—when the silence is so loud it nearly breaks me. When I look at you, lying there, and wonder if you even remember who we used to be. If you remember the nights we stayed up talking, laughing until our sides ached, making plans for a future that now feels like nothing more than a cruel joke. Do you even care? Do you feel this ache, this hollowed-out emptiness that’s taken up residence in my chest? Or have you already let me go, leaving me here to haunt the ruins of our love alone?

Sometimes, I wonder if you ever truly loved me at all, or if I was just a placeholder, a warm body to fill the void. It kills me to think that I may have meant so little to you, that all the memories I cling to were nothing more than fleeting moments for you, easily forgotten. I replay them in my mind—every touch, every whispered promise, every night spent tangled together, convincing myself that it was real, that you felt it too. But then I see you, lying there, silent and unmoved, and the doubt creeps in, swallowing me whole.

This home—it’s become a tomb, a monument to a love that’s long since decayed. We’re both ghosts here, drifting through rooms that once held laughter and light, now darkened by resentment and silence. And every time I try to reach out, to find some spark of the love we once shared, I come up empty-handed, like grasping at smoke. I’m hopeless, trapped in a cycle of longing and despair, begging for a love that no longer exists.

Show me something, I plead, silently, desperately. Show me that I meant something to you, that this wasn’t all in my head. But you say nothing, your silence cutting deeper than any words could. And in that silence, I hear everything—the truth I’ve been too afraid to face. That you’re already gone, that you left long before I was ready to let you go. And here I am, clinging to the ashes, to the ghost of a love that was never truly mine.

I talk to myself, over and over, trying to make sense of it all, to find some way to let go. But my heart refuses to listen, holding tight to a hope that’s nothing more than a cruel illusion. I’m hopeless, begging for the help that will never come, knowing that the only way out is to let go, and yet unable to take that final step.

When I think back on it, on all the memories I’ve clung to, I feel a pang of grief so deep it’s like a knife twisting in my chest. I think of what we could have been, of the life we could have shared if things had been different. But those are just dreams now, shadows of a future that will never come to pass. And I’m left here, drowning in the weight of it all, too scared to let go, too broken to move on.

So here I am, hopeless and alone, trapped in a love that’s nothing more than a memory. I know I should let you go, should walk away from this decaying home we’ve made, but the fear keeps me rooted here, clinging to the familiar ache, because at least it’s something. At least it’s a connection, however painful and empty it may be.

And maybe one day, I’ll be ready to let go. But until then, I’ll stay here, talking to myself, begging my heart to listen, hoping that one day, the silence will finally set me free.