A life on pause

A Life on Pause

The alarm buzzed. Again. It had been ringing for the past hour, but I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. The world outside was moving—cars honking, birds chirping, people laughing—but inside this room, inside my head, everything was still.

I used to have plans. Dreams. A life that felt like it was heading somewhere. Now, I was just existing. Breathing, blinking, eating when necessary. But I wasn’t living. It was as if someone had hit pause on my life, and I couldn’t find the remote to press play again.

The messages on my phone went unanswered. The dishes in the sink piled up. The deadlines came and went, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. People would say, Snap out of it. Just push through. But how do you push through when every step feels like dragging a hundred-pound weight behind you?

I wanted to feel something—anger, sadness, even happiness. But all I felt was… nothing. Numbness wrapped around me like a heavy blanket, suffocating yet familiar.

One evening, I sat by the window, watching life go on without me. I saw a woman rushing home, a man laughing on a phone call, a child chasing a stray cat. They were all living. And for the first time in a long time, I wanted that too.

So, I got up. I didn’t make any grand plans or sudden resolutions. I just took a shower. Then I ate a proper meal. Then I replied to one message. Small steps, but steps nonetheless.

Maybe life wasn’t going to magically fix itself overnight. Maybe I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow feeling like a brand-new person. But I had taken a step, and that had to count for something.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to press play again.