Hollow Years

 

Hey reader! I am back with a new piece of writing for you. Honestly, I don't even know if anyone reads my works at all. But I feel like I am born for this; for writing, sharing what's inside. So I am sharing this piece with hope that some day someone will read, and understand. Cheers🥂

Everyone tied knots early—

threaded gold into their futures,

spun cradles from whispers of love.

She watched from the edges,

her hands empty,

palms worn smooth

from grasping at air.

She tried—

not once, not twice,

but five times—

each story collapsing

like paper boats in a storm.

Still, she built her prayers,

stacked them like bricks,

only to see them crumble,

dust slipping through her fingers.

Now, 27 feels like 57.

Her friends hold babies—

soft, warm lives wrapped in purpose.

Her room holds silence—

sharp, cold,

biting her ankles like winter frost.

She sits alone,

the walls pressing closer,

a pen the only witness

to her unraveling.

Books pile up like barricades—

not to protect, but to contain.

Faith—once a flame,

now a flicker,

a matchstick soaked in rain.

The stars don’t answer,

they just blink,

like spectators to her quiet collapse.

No career, no partner, no foothold.

Just the hum of her pulse

and the echo of unanswered questions:

Why not me?

Why never me?

But still, she writes.

Words sharp as glass,

carving meaning from the void.

Perhaps the world doesn’t need her yet,

or maybe she’s more

than hands longing to hold.

Still, she breathes,

though the air is thin,

though the years feel stolen.

She breathes,

because somewhere, deep within,

there’s a spark too stubborn to die.