I keep on asking how "much" I changed. Like there’s a scale somewhere. Like the year weighed me when I wasn’t looking and wrote the number down in some ledger I’ll never see. But all I have are symptoms. Not signs. Not proof. Just… symptoms. Rooms feel heavier now. Like the air learned grief and forgot how to let go. I play songs too loud, not to feel, but to drown out the part of me that still does. Laughter works. But it doesn’t stay. It’s like a match in a cave. Bright. Brief. Gone. Some days I’m fine in ways that scare me. Some days I’m hollow in ways I can’t defend. Like I’ve become fluent in pretending I’m not echoing. If this is change, why does it feel invisible while I’m living it... and unbearable when I’m alone? I want proof. A scar I can point to. A branch I can name and say: this... this grew because of pain. This bloomed because I didn’t die. But instead, it’s quieter. It’s me leaving conversations earlier. Me crying upstairs and wiping my face before I go back down. Me knowing the exact moment music stops helping, and letting it play anyway. Is that growth? Or just adaptation? Did I become stronger, or just better at holding weight without dropping it in public? I don’t know who I was at the start of the year. Not well enough to compare her to this one. This version. This… survivor? All I know is, something in me kept asking even when no answer came. Something stayed awake. Something didn’t close. So maybe change isn’t what I added. Or lost. Maybe it’s this: I no longer need the year to end cleanly for my life to continue. ... I think that’s enough.