Since I was four, I’ve carried it. A shadow. A glitch in the wiring.
It hums under my skin, sometimes louder than a whisper,
sometimes as quiet as a breath I forgot to take.
Static. Always there.

Friends come and go, but mostly go.
They float off like untethered balloons,
lost in a sky that swallows sound.
I hear them sometimes—
in dreams,
in the spaces between breaths.
I see their faces pixelated,
like bad reception in a world that never says goodbye properly.

I remember the laughs, the looks, the “see you laters”
that never had a later.
Echoes in a tin can,
bouncing back when I least expect it.
And yet—
I’m grateful.
For the voices that haven’t faded out,
the ones that still break through the static.
Flickers of neon in a city at night.
You don’t notice the glow until everything else goes dark.

Depression isn’t loud.
It’s the quiet hum of an empty room,
the blue glow of a TV with no signal.
It’s waking up,
wondering if the day’s already ended.
Anxiety?
Oh, anxiety’s louder.
It’s a skipped beat in a song you love,
a siren in the distance,
but you can’t tell if it’s coming closer or fading away.
Your body braces for impact
that never comes.

Laurie would understand.
She’d hum a note,
let it hover in the air,
let it dissolve.
She’d tell me:
“You’re still here. And that’s something.”
So, I listen.
To the wires crackling,
to the ghosts who don’t know they’re gone,
and to the ones who stayed.

Because even when the signal’s weak,
there’s still a sound.
And sometimes,
that’s enough.