Part 2
It's still the worst day. Not because the sky fell or the world ended—but because I did it again. I made my friend unhappy. And not just any friend—the one who's stuck around through my storms, my silences, my chaos. The one who still answers my 3 a.m. texts even when I have nothing coherent to say. And today, with my stupid words, my careless tone, my inability to just *be okay*, I pushed them away. Again.
I laughed when it happened. "Hahhahah," I typed into my notes app, like it was some cosmic joke only I could hear. Because of course I did this. Of course I ruined something good. I always do. Maybe it's written in my bones: "Here lies someone who breaks everything he touches."
I know I sound insane. Maybe I am. The madness isn't loud—it's quiet, constant, like static in my skull that never turns off. It whispers that I deserve every bit of this pain, that my existence is a debt I must repay through suffering. And today, that voice screamed: You have every fucking right to die.
But then… I didn't.
Not yet.
Because even in the middle of this spiral, something shifted. I ran into an old friend—someone from a lifetime ago, before the weight got this heavy. We bumped into each other at the corner café, both soaked from the rain, both looking like we'd lost something. And for five minutes, we talked like no time had passed. They smiled. I smiled back. And in that tiny sliver of connection, I remembered: even the worst days have good moments.
It wasn't grand. No fireworks. Just warmth in a cold hour. But it was enough to remind me that life isn't all shadow. There are pinpricks of light—even on days like this.
So here's what I'm trying to tell myself, and maybe you too, if you're reading this in your own storm: Do your best to enjoy every part of the day—good or bad. Not because pain is beautiful, but because you're still here to feel it. And feeling means you're alive. And where there is life… there is hope.
I know that quote sounds cliché. Like something stitched onto a pillow in a therapist's office. But today, it felt true. Not because I magically "got better," but because I chose—just for a second—to believe that this moment of kindness, this memory of laughter, this breath in my lungs… it all still counts.
I'm not okay. Not even close. But I'm writing this. I'm reaching out into the void, hoping someone might read it and feel less alone. Maybe that's my purpose today: to say, "I'm drowning, but I haven't sunk yet."
I keep thinking about all my mistakes—every harsh word, every missed chance, every time I let fear speak louder than love. They pile up like stones in my chest. Sometimes I think I'll collapse under the weight. But maybe… maybe carrying them doesn't mean I have to die under them. Maybe I can learn to walk with the weight. Maybe I can turn them into something else—into lessons, into art, into warnings for others so they don't walk the same path.
Today, I chose to text my friend back. Not to explain, not to justify—just to say, "I'm sorry. I care. I'm trying." I don't know if they'll reply. But I sent it anyway. Because trying is all I have right now.
And that's enough.
This is Part 2 of October 24, 2025. Part 1 was the breakdown. Part 2 is the breath after. Maybe tomorrow will be Part 3: the slow walk forward. Or maybe it'll be another fall. But I'll keep writing. Keep showing up. Keep whispering that quote like a prayer: "Where there is life, there is hope."
Because as long as I'm alive—even barely—I haven't lost.
So I'll do this. Not because I'm strong, but because I'm stubborn. Because somewhere deep down, beneath the shame and the noise, there's a version of me that still believes in second chances. In redemption. In the idea that a person can be both broken and worthy of love.
I don't know how this story ends. But today, I choose to keep writing it.
One word. One breath. One moment at a time.
Until the day I die—
I'll keep looking for the light.
Even if it's just a flicker.
Even if it's just for now.
Warning:This piece contains raw expressions of emotional pain, suicidal ideation, self-loathing, and mental distress. It is not intended to romanticize suffering but to reflect a moment of intense vulnerability. If you are experiencing thoughts of self-harm or hopelessness, please reach out to someone you trust or contact a mental health crisis line. You matter. Your life matters. Help is available.