Logged Out Quietly

Didn’t talk much tonight,

kept the lights low,

just drifting through the hours

moving slow.

I slipped away quietly,

no message, no sound —

and nobody noticed

I wasn’t around.

(“it’s fine… whatever…”)

I’m the steady one, I guess —

the one who’s “always fine,”

so when I fade to silence

no one reads the signs.

I logged out quietly,

faded from the scene,

lying in my room

feeling lost in between

being here and not really here —

just tired, just worn.

And it stung a bit

that nobody noticed I was gone.

(“just tired… just tired…")

Two nights now, barely speaking,

just trying to stay upright,

head aching, heart heavy,

everything too tight.

The world keeps moving past me —

laughing, talking, living —

while I sit in the shadows

quietly slipping.

(“I’m still here… I think…”)

I know they don’t mean it,

they’re not trying to ignore —

but feeling invisible

cuts more than before.

I logged out quietly,

no ripple in the air,

lying in my bed

wondering if anyone would care.

Feels like I’m transparent,

just passing through time —

and I wish that someone

would ask if I’m fine.

(“am I fine…?”)

Maybe it’s just exhaustion,

maybe it’s just tonight,

maybe tomorrow

I’ll feel a little more bright.

But right now I’m shaky,

heavy in the chest —

just wanted someone to notice

I needed rest.

(“just one person…”)

I logged out quietly,

didn’t want a scene —

just needed to breathe

and feel like I’m seen.

I know I matter —

I do, deep down.

But tonight it hurt

that nobody noticed I was gone.

(“I’ll be okay… just tired…")