I wish I could hold on to this feeling, to the safety I feel whenever we are together. To trust that this time, I am truly safe. I wish I could simply lay this grief down, loosen its grip around my heart, and finally tear down the walls I have spent years building. But every morning, I wake as though my mind has been quietly rearranged while I slept. I find myself standing in the same familiar place where everything once fell apart, watching my hands build wall after wall before the day has even begun. The warmth I felt the night before slips somewhere beyond my reach, replaced by a numbness that feels older than reason itself. It is an incredibly cruel cycle because every morning, I have to find my way back to you again. Still, as the day goes on, the walls begin to soften. Again. We talk. We laugh. I remember how deeply I love you, and for a while, the fear loosens its grip. I believe we will be okay. I believe in us. Then morning comes, and it is as though none of it happened. The numbness returns before anything has gone wrong. The trust I held so easily the day before feels distant again. I question my heart, my feelings, even my desire to stay, as though love itself has been erased overnight. And so I spend another day searching for what I know I felt only hours before. Perhaps that is what makes it so exhausting. Not because I keep falling out of love, but because I keep waking up inside an older version of myself, one that still believes walls are safer than open doors, one that has not yet learned that love can remain, even after sleep. It feels like grieving and relearning safety over and over, every single day. More than anything, I wish I could wake up and still remember the peace I felt the night before. To trust that I do not have to earn safety from the beginning each morning. To believe that I no longer have to rebuild the walls just to survive another day. M. | the walls I wake up with August 2026

I wish I could hold on to this feeling, to the safety I feel whenever we are together. To trust that this time, I am truly safe. I wish I could simply lay this grief down, loosen its grip around my heart, and finally tear down the walls I have spent years building. But every morning, I wake as though my mind has been quietly rearranged while I slept. I find myself standing in the same familiar place where everything once fell apart, watching my hands build wall after wall before the day has even begun. The warmth I felt the night before slips somewhere beyond my reach, replaced by a numbness that feels older than reason itself. It is an incredibly cruel cycle because every morning, I have to find my way back to you again. Still, as the day goes on, the walls begin to soften. Again. We talk. We laugh. I remember how deeply I love you, and for a while, the fear loosens its grip. I believe we will be okay. I believe in us. Then morning comes, and it is as though none of it happened. The numbness returns before anything has gone wrong. The trust I held so easily the day before feels distant again. I question my heart, my feelings, even my desire to stay, as though love itself has been erased overnight. And so I spend another day searching for what I know I felt only hours before. Perhaps that is what makes it so exhausting. Not because I keep falling out of love, but because I keep waking up inside an older version of myself, one that still believes walls are safer than open doors, one that has not yet learned that love can remain, even after sleep. It feels like grieving and relearning safety over and over, every single day. More than anything, I wish I could wake up and still remember the peace I felt the night before. To trust that I do not have to earn safety from the beginning each morning. To believe that I no longer have to rebuild the walls just to survive another day. M. | the walls I wake up with August 2026

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