Night comes like a slow suffocation.Not suddenly,but gradually—creeping into the corners of my roomuntil everything turns hollow.
My parents' voices fade as the house settles,yet their words stay alive inside my head,repeating themselves like a curseI didn't ask to inherit.
"You're useless.""Fix yourself.""Your best is nothing."
Those sentences don't echo—they sit still,like stones on my chest,heavy enough to shape the way I breathe.
I sit on the edge of my bed,feeling the emptiness beneath melike some quiet ocean.
This bed used to be my safe space.Now it feels like the last placeI can fall apart without witnesses.
I lie down and stare at the ceiling,the same cracks,the same pale color,the same loneliness staring back.
I close my eyes,pretending the ceiling is a skyand the ceiling fan is a moonspinning too slowly to care.
My body feels distant,like it belongs to someone else.Like I'm only borrowing it for a short while.
My thoughts don't rush;they drift,heavy but slow,like sinking in deep water.
I think about childhood—the version of me who laughed easily,who played without fear,who didn't know what guilt felt like.
Where did he go?Did he die quietlythe first time I got hitfor being alive the wrong way?
Or did he disappear slowly,bit by bit,every time I tried to defend myselfand got punished for it?
Sometimes I wonder what it's liketo grow up in a housewhere being happy doesn't make anyone angry.
Where a child can playwithout being told they're ruining their future.
Where joy isn't suspicious.Where silence isn't punishment.Where survival isn't an achievement.
I breathe out slowly,and even my breath feels tired.So tired it barely leaves my body.
My room is dark now,except for the faint streetlight leaking through the blinds.It paints weak shadows on the wall—soft, blurry shapesthat look like things disappearing.
I wish I could disappear like that.Quietly.Without a scene.Without hurting anyone.Just fading.
I turn onto my side,facing the wall.It feels safer than facing the world.
A tiny, ugly truth forms in my mind:
I don't know how to live.But I also don't know how to stop.
I'm stuck in the middle—breathing because my body keeps doing it,existing because stopping would destroy the peoplewho destroyed me.
It's a twisted joke.The kind life tells without laughing.
My heartbeat feels slow,too slow for my age.But I don't panic.I don't react.
I just… listen to it.Like it's someone else's problem.
I tuck my knees closer,not for warmth,but because it feels like the only wayto hold myself together.
My eyes burn,but no tears fall.I'm too exhausted even for that.
The room stays silent,and in that silence,I whisper a thought so softthat even the darkness might not hear it:
"I wish someone understoodhow heavy it is to just stay alive."
My voice doesn't break.It doesn't crack.It simply exists—
quiet,weak,true.
And when I close my eyes again,I let myself drift,not into sleep,but into a temporary escapefrom the person I've become.