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I used to think vacations were supposed to refill the parts of you that life slowly empties. Mine never got the chance. Every quiet moment was swallowed by someone else's noise, someone else's needs, someone else's emotions that somehow always became my responsibility to carry. There wasn't a single day where my mind was allowed to sit in silence. Just endless talking, endless demands, endless pressure until even my own thoughts felt like strangers. It's a peculiar kind of exhaustion — the one that isn't physical, but psychological. The kind that makes you crave absolute silence, not because you hate people, but because your brain has been occupied for so long that it forgets what peace sounds like. Sometimes I lie awake wishing for just five uninterrupted minutes to think. Sometimes I can't sleep because the noise never really ends. It follows me, even after the room is quiet. The saddest part is that I've started realizing work feels more like rest than being home. Not because I love working that much, but because they're not there. Because between deadlines and responsibilities, there's finally room to hear my own thoughts. Imagine needing your job to relax because home never gives you the chance. And then comes the guilt, because you're expected to be patient, understanding, available. So you keep saying yes. You keep listening. You keep shrinking to make room for someone else's storms. Today I realized I don't miss my vacation — I miss the version of me that thought I would actually get one. I'm not angry at the world. I'm just so unbearably tired that there are moments when I want to scream into the walls or watch something shatter, if only to hear a sound that isn't another demand. Maybe tomorrow will be quieter. I hope so.