The Extra Day

When the world celebrates more time, some of us just fall deeper into it.

Memorial Day. Labor Day. The Fourth of July.
Long weekends. Long silences.

There’s something cruel about an extra day off when you’ve got no one to spend it with. The world celebrates more time, while you quietly resent the hours that won’t move fast enough.

Couples flood the lakeside bars. Families light grills. Everyone becomes a little louder, a little warmer, a little more together. And then there’s you—walking past the same goddamn corner store for the third time, pretending you're headed somewhere specific.

It’s not just loneliness. It’s the performance of it.
Like you’re the only one who didn’t get the invite. Like the quiet around you is your fault.

On normal days, the distractions help. Work. Deadlines. The steady hum of obligation. But holidays strip that away. They gift you space, and sometimes space is the last thing you need.
Because space turns into thought.
Thought turns into memory.
And memory—well, that one never plays fair.

You start scrolling through old messages. Wondering if you should’ve sent that last text. Replaying the last time someone laughed with you instead of at a screen.
Even the city sounds different.
Like it knows you’re listening.

And the worst part?
No one checks in.
Because holidays are supposed to be happy.
And no one wants to ruin their weekend with someone else’s ache.

So you pour a drink.
Or light a candle.
Or lie on your back, ceiling-staring, whispering to no one in particular,
“Just get me to Tuesday.”

But maybe—
Maybe one day, you’ll love someone who makes these long weekends feel short.
Who’ll make extra time feel like a gift again.
And until then?

You survive them.
Quietly.
Softly.
Like a prayer no one hears but still somehow works.

// Scorpio Veil
I don’t beg for company.
I seduce the silence—
until even the ache wants to stay.