Didn’t talk to my family today
I wanna cry
I came home exhausted, every muscle aching, and by 8 p.m., I surrendered to sleep, hoping to escape the weight of the day. But now, it’s midnight, and the quiet in the house stirs something restless inside me.
My father, still in the lounge, sleeps there with a kind of patience only he has—waiting for the water tank, making sure everything’s in order. He’s a quiet strength, his love in these small acts of care, yet I didn’t even sit down to talk to him. The missed moments ache, the things we could’ve shared slipping through the cracks of time I spent sleeping.
And there’s my mom, sleeping peacefully, looking so pretty and beautiful. I can picture us laughing over some show, me asking about her day, her telling me stories with that warm, knowing smile she wears just for us. I didn’t hear her voice today, and now I feel that absence deeply.
My sister, buried in her assignments, is still awake, surrounded by papers and the quiet chaos of tomorrow’s deadlines. I didn’t even ask her how she was managing it all, how her day had gone, the way siblings do.
And then there’s my other sister and brother, who I didn’t hear from today either. My brother had messaged, asking for help with some code, and I forgot to send it. How irresponsible of me—
I feel like I’ve let everyone down by disappearing into my own fatigue.
The house may be silent, but my head is filled with the echoes of things unsaid, moments untouched. I realize now how:
sometimes sleep can take away more than just the hours—it can take away the little pieces of life we can never get back.
