Quiet truths

It’s around 3 a.m. right now. I’m curled up in bed, drenched in sweat, half-shivering, half-burning, with malaria clawing at every inch of me. My fever has been hovering around 103° all day — a number that should probably have sent me to the hospital by now, but here I am, still at home, head pounding like a war drum.

And still, I've never been the one to succumb, never taught how to, even in this hell state... so here I am trying to write down something just trying to make all this noise a little quieter. Tbh I would've written this in my journal, but my hands aren't allowing me rn to do so. 

This is me being really vulnerable and in a dire need of a hug (Free hug, Taehyungieee >.< )

I can’t sleep. Not really. Not with this heat in my veins and this ache in my bones. So I lie here instead, drifting somewhere between nausea, pain, and too many thoughts. Maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s this weakness and helplessness I'm feeling being this sick — but suddenly everything feels louder. The emotions, the regrets, the realizations I’ve been too distracted or too afraid to face.

And the people. God, the people.

Sickness has a funny way of revealing things. When you’re too weak to pretend, when your world shrinks down to pain and breath and maybe water, you start noticing who checks in… and who doesn't. Who asks if you’re okay. Who offers to bring medicine, food, a voice note, a random text, anything. And who stays quiet. Who disappears.

It hurts in a way that’s hard to explain — to realize that someone you thought would care… doesn’t. Not enough, at least. Not in the way you hoped. And at the same time, the ones who do show up — sometimes people you didn’t expect — shine like little lights in all the fog. That contrast hits deep.

I think being sick also strips away the noise inside yourself. Like right now — I can’t run from what I feel. I’m just here, stuck in this fragile body, facing the truth. 

And I realize: I miss someone. I want someone. Not in a casual, passing way, but in that deep, aching way that makes your chest physically hurt. And the worst part? I can’t have them.

Whether it's distance, timing, circumstances, or just reality — it’s out of reach. And maybe it always was. But I didn’t let myself feel that before. Now, it’s undeniable. When you're this raw, everything gets stripped down to its core. There's no filter. Just truth.

So yeah, I’m in pain. Fever pain. Heart pain. Memory pain.
I’ve already cried three times tonight, and not just because of the physical exhaustion.

I’m thinking about all the times I’ve been there for people — really there — and wondering who would be there for me now, if I asked. I’m thinking about the way I push myself to keep going, even when I’m barely holding it together, and whether anyone actually sees that. I’m thinking about love — the kind I’ve given, the kind I’ve held back, and the kind I still want, even if it never comes.

And honestly? BTS songs, comforting movies, soft playlists, fictional novels — they only go so far.
They help for a moment.

But what I really want right now is for someone to hold me close and kiss the pain away.
That’s it. That’s the thing my soul keeps whispering in the middle of all this noise. I crave for that physical attention I've been deprived of for so long. I want to feel safe in someone’s arms, to have someone hug me, kiss me, and say, “I’ve got you,” and actually mean it.
Not just once. But for real.

I know this moment will pass. The fever will break eventually. The ache will dull. I’ll go back to functioning, working, laughing, pretending I’m okay. But tonight? Tonight I’m not okay. It feels every part is breaking and shrinking away. 

So, for once I'll say, I'm not fine. 

And I think it’s important to say that out loud.

Sometimes we only get these truths when our bodies break down. Sometimes it takes being sick to feel everything else.

So here it is. A fever dream, a quiet confession, a reminder that even in our weakest moments, we can be honest — with ourselves, and maybe with the world.

And maybe that’s something strong, too.