▶︎•၊၊||၊|။|||| | call your mom by noah kahan

You didn’t want to die. You just wanted love. You wanted to feel something—anything. You wanted to feel alive. Every day, you’d pass by families holding hands, couples laughing, people surrounded by warmth and care. People who had what you longed for. So why couldn’t you? Why did everyone else seem to get love, and you didnt? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all. and you wanted to show them.

when you passed on july twelfth, 2004, at seventeen, suddenly everyone cared. The same people who barely noticed you when you were alive now wanted to love you. But it was too late. you were gone. They were left asking themselves why you did it, as if the answer wasn’t staring them in the face.

You don’t know how long it’s been since you died. Time blurs when you’re a ghost, drifting aimlessly through the walls of the empty apartment where you once lived. The place still feels haunted by your pain—dead roses crumble in corners, shards of broken glass glint in the pale light. The air hangs heavy, like the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Then one day, a girl comes through the door. she’s struggling to carry a box, huffing as she sets it down. her blonde hair curls in a way that almost makes her look like a princess, but there’s no magic in her eyes. they’re dull, empty—just like yours used to be.

She’s tall, graceful even, but something about her seems… fragile. Broken in a way that feels all too familiar. Watching her becomes your daily routine. There isn’t much else to do. She doesn’t see you, doesn’t sense the faint presence lingering in the air. She doesn’t know this space used to belong to someone else, someone who was just as alone as she is now.

You watch her struggle, day after day. She fights with herself, with the world. Like you, almost. And you want to help, before she ends up like you.