The Quiet Hum of Absence

Sometimes it feels like a radio station stuck between frequencies. Static and snippets of songs you can’t quite place. That’s what they were talking about, I think—that feeling when *everything* is… absent. It wasn’t exactly sadness; more like the absence of anything to be sad *about*. A neutral tone applied to a life that was, objectively, okay.

It's weird how many ways there are to measure “okay.” My dad would say it’s okay if I got good grades and kept my room clean. Mom just wants me to be happy, which is lovely but doesn’t really help when you feel like you're floating a little above your own life. And then there’s the things that aren’t measured at all—the quiet, humming emptiness in the background of everything.

The thing about feeling empty isn’t that it’s constant. It shifts. Some days it’s barely noticeable; other days, you can practically taste it. Like when I went to Phoebe Bridgers last spring and everyone around me seemed so completely *there*, singing along to every word with this kind of fervent knowing. And I just… wasn't. Not in the same way. It felt like watching a movie about someone else’s life, except that person was supposed to be me.

There's been a study recently, or something, people were sharing links online, and it talked about how this feeling changes every day. Apparently, the people who feel it most intensely are also often really good at understanding other people’s feelings. It kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Like if you’re used to looking *out* for what’s missing in your own life, you might be more likely to see it in others.

I remember once trying to explain this to Sarah—she’s in my English class and really into graphic design. She was talking about how she struggles with feeling disconnected from her own work sometimes, like she's just copying what other people are doing. I understood that immediately; not because I do graphic design (far from it), but because I’ve felt that exact same disconnect when writing. Trying to find the words for something you can't quite grasp—that’s a whole different kind of empty.

It makes me wonder about empathy, really. Is it just about feeling what other people feel, or is it also about recognizing what they *aren't* feeling? The things that are missing? My dad says I’m too sensitive sometimes, that I take everything too personally. Maybe he's right. But maybe there’s a reason I notice those silences in conversations, those tiny shifts in someone’s expression.

It’s exhausting, though. Constantly scanning for the absences, both in myself and in others. Sometimes I wish I could just turn it off. The feeling of being slightly untethered from reality—it's like background noise that never quite goes away. It’s not necessarily *bad*, but it’s always there.

Maybe finding meaning isn't about filling the space, but about learning to live with it. About recognizing that the quiet hum is just… part of the soundtrack. Like when I listen to National - those songs aren't loud or flashy; they're quiet and observant, and somehow, they make me feel a little less alone in my own head. It’s not a solution, but it’s something.