A Dictionary for the Days That Don’t Exist

They say if you cannot name a thing, it disappears.

But some feelings refuse to vanish. They hover at the edges of language, restless, waiting for a word to contain them.

This is a dictionary for such days—days that slip through calendars, moments that refuse definition, emotions that arrive without passports.

Aurelia (n.)

The glow that lingers after someone has left a room, though the space is empty. Light without source. Presence without body.

Noxmare (n.)

The exhaustion that comes not from work, but from living through a world that insists on daylight when your soul is craving night.

Silvens (n.)

The quiet ache of standing in a forest and realizing that you will never learn its language, no matter how long you listen.

Hearthless (adj.)

The sensation of returning to a place once called home, only to feel it repelling you gently, as if it belonged now to someone else.

Mirrorglade (n.)

The split-second recognition of yourself in a stranger’s gesture. A laugh, a tilt of the head—your own ghost flickering in another body.

Fallowlight (n.)

The hour before dawn when your body is tired but your mind is lit with unfinished dreams, demanding to be written.

Ashbreath (n.)

The sigh after grief—when the sobs have quieted but the air itself still tastes of smoke and endings.

Veloria (n.)

The sweetness of remembering something you never lived. A memory borrowed from a book, a song, a photograph, but worn tenderly as your own.

Chasmwake (v.)

To open your eyes in the middle of the night and feel the vast distance between yourself and the world, as if you were floating alone in space.

Eiren (n.)

The calm that follows a decision made with the whole body, even if the choice is difficult. A steadiness that feels like gravity at last.

Gloamskin (n.)

The shimmer your body carries after a moment of intimacy—touch still echoing in your skin long after it’s gone.

Driftveil (n.)

The haze that covers the mind after waking from a dream you wish had lasted longer. A veil of almost-memory.

Kindrel (n.)

The warmth of recognizing a kindred soul without needing words—an ancient familiarity carried in a glance.

Luminth (n.)

The way candlelight makes even ordinary rooms feel holy, as though the walls are listening.

Sorrowling (n.)

The small sadness that follows joy, like a bird’s shadow passing across sunlight, reminding you that brightness is brief.

Orrisfall (n.)

The soft collapse of petals in a vase long past their bloom, beautiful even in decay.

Veindusk (n.)

The heaviness in your body when the day is almost over, and you realize the hours slipped away without your permission.

Threnora (n.)

The music of grief that hums beneath ordinary days—an undercurrent you feel but cannot locate.

Bramora (n.)

The courage that arrives only after the moment has passed. A bravery that lingers too late to matter.

Sabletide (n.)

The sensation of sitting by the ocean at night, the waves black as ink, and feeling both infinite and impossibly small.

Halethorn (n.)

The tenderness of holding onto something that hurts you, simply because letting go feels worse.

Noctisveil (n.)

The pause between a question asked in the dark and the answer that may never come.

Lornhaven (n.)

The fragile safety you feel in solitude—not joy, not despair, but the quiet harbor of being unobserved.

Emberrest (n.)

The peace of realizing not all flames need to burn. That sometimes, glowing embers are enough to keep you alive.

This dictionary will never be finished.

Because every day that doesn’t exist invents its own word, waiting for someone—perhaps you—to whisper it aloud, to let it live.