By Naisha Nagpal
Today, there is a sadness
that doesn't cry anymore.
It scrolls,
quietly,
behind a locked door.
You say, “I’m fine,”
as if it’s a spell,
a phrase you’ve learned
all too well.
You reply “haha” to a message
that makes your chest ache -
a laugh so hollow,
it trembles like an earthquake.
You keep 55 tabs open -
not on your browser,
but in your brain.
All of them loud,
none of them sane.
You laugh in group photos
but forget the reason why.
The flash caught your laughter,
but it didn't catch your sigh.
You’ve forgotten how your own voice sounds
when you’re not explaining your place.
You blur out that pimple.
You filter your face.
They’ve taught you
to grind, to push, to build -
but not how to feel,
when you’re empty and unfilled.
They’ve taught you
to monetize every hobby,
track down every hour,
and optimize every second -
as if moments must be measured,
not tasted, held, or treasured.
As if quiet was a flaw,
not something that left us raw.
Even joy has an agenda,
which slips through your fingers like soft propaganda.
You don’t miss anyone—
except you miss everyone.
You yearn.
Beneath the curated calm,
you ache.
Not for promotions,
not even for praise,
but for something
you’ve forgotten the name of -
a moment that doesn’t lead anywhere.
A gaze that lingers,
a breath of air.
You yearn
to feel again.
Fully.
Painfully.
Honestly.
But maybe,
just maybe,
this ache that you hide
is proof that you’re still here,
still burning inside.