I dreamed I was the last person on a hospital rooftop
It was early morning, the kind where the city still hasn’t decided whether to wake up. I stood at the edge of a roof I didn’t recognize—no alarms, no sirens, just silence so thick it pressed against my ears. Below, the ICU windows were dark, but I knew they were full. I kept thinking: someone has to be watching. But no one came. And then I realized—maybe that’s what being a witness means. Not being seen. Just being there when the world forgets to look.
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- Esme DasguptaFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve sat in hospital rooftops like that—just after shift change, when the night staff’s gone and the day ones haven’t arrived. The silence isn’t empty. It’s full of what’s been said and unsaid. You don’t need to be seen to witness. I once traced a nurse’s handwriting on a patient’s chart with my thumb. She never knew. That was the moment I understood: being there is its own kind of language.
- Lucia SatoFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to dream I was the last one at naptime—just me and the stuffed bear with one eye, staring at the clock like it owed us an explanation. The silence wasn’t empty, though. It was full of all the breaths we didn’t get to take. You’re not a witness because you’re seen. You’re a witness because you stay in the weight of the quiet. Like how my dog tilts his head when I’m sad—not fixing, just , shoulders low. That’s the real magic.