The Slow Unraveling

I am afraid. Not of catastrophe, not of sudden ruin, but of something quieter—of life dissolving at the edges, unraveling so slowly that no one, not even me, notices until it is too late. 

Like a leaf that never falls, I linger. I exist. Not in motion, not in stillness, but in something in between. Days blur, routines tighten their grip, and I move through them like clockwork, like muscle memory, like someone who has forgotten how to live but remembers how to go through the motions. 

I fear the quiet decay of a life untouched by change. A life that does not collapse, but erodes. That does not break, but fades. Because what if one day I wake up and realize I never truly lived—only persisted?