The Ruin Script

it’s almost christmas.

i was nineteen the last time i remember celebrating it. that was 2023, back when the season still had weight in my hands, when laughter felt warm instead of distant. now, christmas arrives like a visitor i no longer recognize, standing at the door, knocking softly while i pretend to be asleep, practicing the art of not answering.

for two years, i have learned the ritual of absence. i lock myself in during these days. i slept through christmas eve, as if resting could eradicate the 25th. outside, carols spill into the streets, fireworks bloom and die in the sky, games erupt in sudden joy. i hear them. i see them. but they just pass through me, leaving no warmth behind.

i tried to remember the feeling. i reached for it the way one reaches for a forgotten scent, trusting the heart to do what memory no longer can. but every time, i am left with a blank canvas. no color. no warmth. just the shape of something familiar that used to be mine.

maybe this is how my distance works. maybe i stepped back so far that i now exist only in the margins of other people’s lives—othered not by exile, but by choice. or maybe i am waiting: for a voice that says my name without hesitation, for a knock that insists i still have warmth in the fire i keep watching from afar.

for two years, silence has been so loud it nearly drowned me. and yet, i know this too—no one asked me to isolate myself this deeply. these walls were built with my own hands. i measured the bricks. i sealed the doors. i hid myself until they almost forgot i existed.

so why do i still ache to be reached?
why do i want someone to cross the distance
when i flinch at being touched?

it’s almost christmas. and today, i feel the fracture more clearly. not because of the season, but because i am finally aware of how fragile these walls are. how exhausted i am of living in shades when i crave color. not gentle hues, not careful light—but something vivid. overwhelming. almost painful. something that proves i am still capable of feeling.

i don’t know if i should keep moving forward without looking back, or if the truer courage is to carry my vulnerability with me as i go—to let it be seen, to let it ache. this isn’t a resolution. it’s barely a thought learning how to breathe.

it’s almost christmas.

when will i learn that healing doesn’t arrive like a season—
and that waiting can become its own kind of prison?

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 23rd of december, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.