There are moments when I catch myself vanishing—not in the literal sense, not in a way that others can see, but in a way that feels just as real, as if something within me loosens its grip and slips quietly into the shadows, retreating to a place where I am neither fully here nor entirely gone. It is subtle, a gradual dissolving rather than a sharp disappearance, a slow unravelling of presence that happens before I even realize it is occurring, as though my existence itself is tentative, fragile, something that can fade at the slightest disturbance. Last week was one of those times. I felt it creeping in, the dull hum of detachment settling over me, wrapping itself around my edges, numbing sensation, dulling thought. And I knew, without needing to name it, why it had returned—because even now, even in a life that is safer than before, even with the absence of immediate danger, there are parts of me that do not believe it, parts of me that still brace for the impact of something unseen,...