Where are you?

I don’t know how many seasons have passed. I can no longer understand what the calendars are trying to tell me. The footsteps of time no longer visit my room. Nights merge with days, cloaked in shadows, as light and darkness blend into one. The hours no longer flow; they drip. And here, in this room, I realize that the only thing still breathing is my thoughts. Yellowed walls, cracked plaster, and silent, breathing piles of dust... Everything is here, with me.

Once, this place was a temporary stop. A corner where I thought I’d stay for a while and then leave. But days passed, then weeks, and months. Then... then I found myself here, trapped in an endless wait, imagining the ends of roads I couldn’t take. There’s no place left for me to go now.

Sometimes, I stand by my window and look outside. But the view tells me nothing. Just a fog. That’s all. Streets, sounds, people... maybe they once existed. But now? I don’t know what’s out there. How can you believe in the existence of a world you can’t see? A voice inside me says everything has changed. But there’s no proof—no news, no letters, no strangers to confirm it.

A desk, a chair, and piles of paper I’ve filled… This is my life now. I write. I write endlessly. Words are like thin threads keeping me alive. But the stories I write seem to never reach the world they belong to. Those pages, those characters, those dreams… They’re all decaying here, in this room, with me. I imagine my stories have a purpose. Maybe, one day, someone will read them. Maybe, one day, a traveler will pass through and take my pages with them. Until then, I must keep writing.

My stories are as blurry as my old memories. They used to be more vivid, more real. Now, they’re just fragments of faces lost in the shattered mirrors of my mind. I remember a woman, for instance. Her hair... what color was it? Maybe black, maybe brown. And her eyes? I try to describe her. But every time I pick up my pen, her face fades away. Again and again, I write. Maybe one day, I’ll remember who she was. Maybe one day, through these stories, I’ll reach her.

The nights are longer here. Sometimes I wake up and feel another presence in the room. A pair of eyes watching me in the dark, a silent shadow… I talk to it. I don’t know who or what it is, but I find something to share with my solitude. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe it’s real. Who knows? When morning comes, the shadow disappears. Only the cold and the silence remain.

Over time, I realized I’ve forgotten how to speak. Words feel like strangers now. Sometimes I whisper a few words just to hear my own voice. But that voice… it doesn’t even feel like mine. I feel like a minor character in my own story. If someone came from the outside, I’d want to talk to them. I’d ask them questions: “How can I get out of here?” or “Do you know an address?” But no one comes.

Once, people used to come here. Their voices, their laughter, their anger would echo off the walls of this room. Now, there’s nothing. Only emptiness. And this emptiness slowly pulls me into it.

I don’t even know who I’m writing my stories for anymore. Do I have readers? And you, my dear reader? If, somehow, these words have reached you, please respond. Because I’m here. But I don’t know where “here” is, or even who I am.

I am here. But where are you my reader?