Life doesn’t feel like living anymore. It feels like standing in a long, endless line, waiting for something you can’t quite see but know is coming — waiting for the end. The days pass like reluctant hours, each one dragging you a little closer to the one moment that will finally let you rest. It isn’t fear you feel anymore. It’s not even sadness. It’s something quieter, heavier. Like you’ve already shaken hands with the idea of death, and now you’re just sitting patiently for it to arrive. They say life is about chasing happiness, building futures, fighting for tomorrow. But what if you’ve stopped fighting? What if every tomorrow feels like a weight pressing down on you, another performance you never asked to give? You start to think about the end differently — not as a loss, but as a kind of homecoming. Because maybe there, in that final void, there will be no one left to question why you are the way you are, no one left to reject the love you offered, no one left to make you feel like too much or not enough. Maybe there, you can finally stop explaining yourself. And so, life becomes this quiet wait. You keep breathing, keep moving, but with every step you’re secretly hoping to reach that place where peace isn’t something you have to chase, where silence isn’t heavy but kind. You wait, not because you hate life, but because you are tired of proving to it that you deserve to exist. And when it finally comes — that dark, still moment — you will welcome it. Not with fear, but with the relief of someone who has been carrying a weight far too long.