I talk to myself in empty rooms. Full conversations with people who aren't there. I rehearse what I'll say to the cashier, to my mother, to the friend I haven't seen in years. Sometimes I find myself waiting for responses from empty chairs. The silence stretches until I provide both sides of the conversation. My own voice sounds foreign to me. When did imaginary dialogues become more real than actual ones?

Last night I caught myself nodding at nothing, responding to a question no one asked. The walls are witnessing these performances without judgment. I've started leaving lights on in rooms I'm not in – it feels less like talking to myself. There's comfort in this pretending. How many of your meaningful exchanges happen only in your head, with versions of people who no longer exist?