Dear Fate,

In the depths of winter, my fingertips trace these words onto tear-stained paper. The city lights blur outside my window, each one a reminder of lives being lived while mine stands still.

The weight of existence crushes my chest – a constant pressure, like drowning in open air. Yesterday, I watched autumn leaves dance past my window, free in their descent. Even they have more purpose than I do. Each morning, my reflection grows more hollow, dark circles beneath my eyes deepening like bruises of the soul.

My story isn't written in victories but in the silence of unanswered calls, in empty chairs at cafes where friends once sat. I've counted ceiling cracks through sleepless nights, each line a tally of opportunities missed, of dreams turned to dust. Success flows around me like a river I can't touch, carrying others to golden shores while I sink in quicksand.

The mundane becomes monumental – breathing, eating, existing. Each step echoes with the weight of failure. My apartment walls hold conversations with shadows, memories of laughter now mocking my solitude. The calendar on my wall remains pristine, unmarked – no plans, no future, no hope.

I've scraped my knuckles raw against life's walls, leaving bloodstains on every attempt to climb. The scars tell stories of countless tries, each one ending in the same hollow thud of failure. The taste of defeat has become familiar – metallic, like copper pennies under my tongue.

Now, in this moment between fighting and surrender, I understand. Some flowers aren't meant to bloom. Some stars fade before anyone notices their light. My hands shake as I write this, not from fear but from exhaustion. The kind that seeps into bones and crystallizes there, turning motion into agony.

The world spins on, indifferent to my fading. Perhaps that's the cruelest part – the quiet way existence continues without protest. No dramatic finale, just a slow dimming, like a candle burning out in an empty room.

Yours truly,

A Shadow Fading