A thousand souls could be crying at night in bed, wearing the ache of the day so deeply inside, and none of them would know. Even different forms of pain could mask as the same; the same hurt that overpowered their joy.

Feeling alone in such moments feels so vulnerable, yet so strong. _Yes, I own this pain, _one would think. _I am unafraid to conceal it any longer, and the only way for it to go is out. It seeped in, uninvitingly, but I can control what I want to do with it while it’s here._

Some intentionally avoid. Some scroll. Some drink. Some talk. Some sleep.

Others write. Others create. Others breathe.

In the end, we all look the same in the dark.