I still miss the ordinary witness of being known from inside a shared day

Dear Delyara, Someone who already knows what that silence means. What kind of tired this is. Why the child’s mood matters. Why that email stayed under my skin. Why the money feels heavier this month. Why I am sharper than I want to be. Why I sound like this when I say “I’m fine.” That witness is harder to replace than I understood while I still had it. Now so much of my day stays trapped inside me by night because translation is labour and I have already spent too much of myself elsewhere by the time darkness arrives. That is a quiet kind of grief. Still grief.