When all hope is lost, what do we rely on? There’s this feeling, you know, when everything falls apart. _Like you’re floating in some dark void,_ but it’s not as poetic as it sounds. It’s more like you’re drowning in a place where air should be. And maybe no one sees it. They just keep asking why you look so tired. But you’re _not_ tired. You’re empty. You try to remember what it was like before – when things made sense, when waking up didn’t feel like a chore, when every little thing didn’t feel so heavy. But memory is a liar sometimes, showing you only the good parts of the past and making the present seem even worse. So, what do you do when hope is gone? Some people cling to distractions – the glow of a phone screen, endless scrolling, pretending that memes and TikToks can fill the void. Others turn to friends, but sometimes even the best ones can’t understand what’s going on inside your head. They say things like, “It’ll get better,” or “Just hang in there,” but their words fall flat, like echoes in a hollow room. _Music helps,_ though. There’s something about those sad songs that feels like they were written just for you. You lie on your bed, headphones in, and let the lyrics wash over you. It’s like someone out there gets it, gets _you._ And for a while, the void doesn’t seem so endless. Then there’s art – the messy kind. Not the pretty, Instagram-worthy stuff, but the raw sketches and scribbles that let out the chaos inside. It doesn’t have to be good; it just has to be real. Pouring your soul into a piece of paper, letting the ink or paint speak the words you can’t. Sometimes, you find solace in the night sky. It sounds cheesy, but staring at those stars reminds you how small you are, how insignificant all this pain might be in the grand scheme of things. The stars are ancient, and they’ve seen everything. If they can endure the darkness, maybe you can too. And then there’s the moments you hold on to – the tiny sparks in the gloom. A genuine smile from a stranger, the warmth of a hot drink on a cold day, the soft comfort of your favorite hoodie. These aren’t solutions, but they’re anchors. They keep you from drifting too far into the abyss. You _rely_ on these little things. The touchstones that, while small, are enough to keep you grounded. They’re not grand gestures or life-changing epiphanies. They’re quiet, unassuming. But they’re there. And sometimes, just knowing that there’s something to hold on to, no matter how small, is enough to keep you going. So, when hope is lost, you rely on the scraps. You build your own fragile web of tiny comforts and fleeting joys. It’s not much, but it’s something. And maybe, _just maybe,_ it’s enough.