Why Does the Clock Stop Only for Me?

It’s 10:15 p.m. in my city.

I’m sitting by the window with a pen and a small notebook. I keep looking at the lights coming from the houses around me. There’s this quiet, messy noise coming from everywhere… like every house is its own small world. Each one carrying its own thoughts, worries, and life that keeps moving forward.

Down the street, I hear kids playing football. Their voices go up and down in the night. Even they seem so sure of their little dreams, chasing them without thinking too much.

The cold air hits my face. It almost feels like it’s telling me something… like I should get up, do something, think clearly, change things. My life feels stuck sometimes, like the days keep repeating themselves. But I don’t move.

I think I’m scattered. Like I’m trying to learn everything at once—too many skills, too many languages, too many versions of me I want to become. I know it’s too much, but I still do it.

I heard once that writing helps you figure things out. Like you start with confusion, and somewhere in the middle, something makes sense. So I write… mostly for myself.

I pause and talk to my sister about things I’ve been getting interested in lately. I’m excited while talking, probably too excited. She doesn’t really react. Or maybe she just isn’t listening. I can’t tell.

So I go back to the window again.

From the next room, I hear my parents talking. Their voices are loud, normal, familiar. They’re talking about a small cat that showed up on our balcony a while ago with her kittens. They’ve been feeding her, even put a cardboard box out so she can stay warm.

As I listen, the cold suddenly feels stronger.

So strong that my tears almost freeze before they fall.

I try to push the feeling away. It rises too fast, sits on my face before I can hide it.

Am I just a ghost walking through this house?

I tell myself it’s fine. I really don’t care if someone comes and asks if I’m okay.

Then I stop for a second and read what I wrote.

It sounds like loneliness. Like sadness. Like I painted it all without meaning to.

Maybe that’s true.

The strange thing is… I know what I want. I really do.

But the path there feels covered in fog. And it feels like I’m walking it alone.

Everyone else seems to move. Everyone else seems to find their way.

So why does the clock stop only for me?

I read this piece for the twelfth time.

Maybe I’ll find the answer.