Absence.

The kids are playing in the backyard. From the outside, it must look peaceful — a mother watching, smiling softly, calling out the usual warnings: don’t run, you’ll fall… be careful.

But I’m not really there.

My body is, yes. My voice is. But my mind is somewhere else — far from the sunlight and the sound of laughter. It’s strange how absence can live inside presence, how I can stand here and feel so far away.

I catch myself scrolling again, thumbing through other people’s moments. I’m not even interested; it’s just noise. A way to numb the ache of wanting something I can’t quite name.

Connection? Stillness? Maybe just… myself.

The guilt comes right after. The thought that I’m missing what matters most, that I’ll regret this small act of escape. I always do. But sometimes it feels easier to disappear than to face my own restlessness.

I put the phone down.
The boys are still laughing.
And for a moment — a brief, fragile moment — I come back.
But a part of me is already slipping away again — and I don’t yet know why.

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