FRACTURE

Black has always been my favorite color. Maybe because it never pretends to be anything else. It reminds me of my days—quiet, dull, and endlessly repetitive. Every morning wakes me up just to repeat yesterday, and every night promises another tomorrow that looks exactly the same.

Lately, I’ve started imagining my loneliness as black smoke trapped inside my body. It keeps searching for a way out, but never finds one. Instead, it drifts through every empty corner of me—growing heavier with each passing day until even breathing feels exhausting.

Perhaps that’s why I spend so much of my life pretending. Pretending I’m fine. Pretending I’m listening. Pretending I don’t feel exhausted. Pretending that none of this hurts. After a while, pretending becomes more natural than honesty.

I wonder what this smoke is doing to me. Is it slowly taking away the kindest part of me—the part that still wants to forgive, help, and care? Or is it simply teaching me how to survive by becoming someone colder... quieter... more distant than I ever wanted to be?

Maybe one day the smoke will finally fade away. Or maybe I’ll learn to breathe with it. Until then, it remains inside me—silent, invisible, and heavier than anyone could ever see.