It's been a week since they told me I have schizophrenia. I keep thinking it's a mistake. It has to be. Fifteen. Fifteen years old. What could possibly make a life this small need a label like that? Kids my age get homework, crushes, bad hair days. Not… this.
But the words stick. They hover in the air, tagging along, like smoke I can't shake. I don't remember much about my childhood. Just flashes. Faces I can't place. Shadows that vanish when I reach for them. All I know for sure is that my parents are gone. Dead. The why, the how, the when—it's all empty cells in my memory, blinking unanswered.
The world outside my hotel window is messy, moving in bursts of color and sound that don't belong. People walk with too-perfect smiles, faces stretched like old paintings, grinning at nothing and everything at once. Everyone else seems to think they look normal. I know better. They're off somewhere, pretending to be ordinary, but I can see the edges cracking.
I pour coffee into my cup with the exact precision I've settled into. A morning ritual. A life raft. I sip it slowly, savoring the bitter taste as if it will anchor me to the day. The hotel room is pristine, polished, everything shining as though it were prepared for someone important. The VIP happens to be me.
I drag the mug over to the small desk, my fingers brushing against my phone. I scroll, check the time, stare at the apps I barely remember downloading. My aunt booked this trip. Flights, hotel, psychologist appointment. She said it's necessary. She says I need help. She said she's worried I'm slipping. Her eyes follow me, silent with fear, sharp enough to cut through any protest I might try to offer.
I pack the coffee away, stack the empty cup in the sink. My bag is open on the bed, half-filled, half-empty. Each item I shove inside feels heavier than it should—jeans, toothbrush, a notebook I never wrote in, headphones that never played music. The zipper fights me, and I fight back. Somehow I win.
My reflection in the mirror catches me, tired, small, but still… watching. The shadows behind my eyes twitch, the hairs on the back of my neck raise like static electricity. I tell myself it's nothing. Stress. Too little sleep. Too much caffeine. Bad lighting.
I check my phone again. Uber requested. Fifteen minutes. Maybe twelve. Maybe they're going to get my location wrong. Maybe the driver will be smiling too wide, teeth too white, eyes too shiny. I shake the thought away. They'll be normal. Right?
I step over the polished floor, feeling the hotel under my socks. It hums beneath me like it knows. I zip the last of my bags, swing the handles, test the weight. Lighter than yesterday, heavier than I feel. I glance at the door. Keycard in hand. A deep inhale.
Outside, the city hums like a machine I'm no longer fully a part of. I call the Uber again, because what if the first one is late, or wrong, or too quiet? My aunt would scold me if I forgot to check. I whisper her warnings back at myself. I don't want to hear them, but I do anyway.
I sit on the edge of the bed, strap the smaller bag across my shoulder. The coffee's warmth has faded. My fingers feel cold, but alive. The hum of the city is louder now. Footsteps echo behind me. I blink. Nothing.
The Uber arrives. He's normal enough. Smiling politely. Doesn't notice the way I hesitate, the way I breathe unevenly. I slide into the backseat, bags beside me, phone in my lap.
The drive to the airport begins. The city moves past the window in a blur. I feel it—the tug inside me, the small, whispering voice that reminds me of last night, last week, the week before that. I try to ignore it. I focus on the road outside, on the headlights stretching into ribbons of orange and white.
I take another breath. Coffee gone. The day waiting. My aunt's voice still lingering in my head, but softer now.
I am leaving.
I am moving.
I am still here.
The Uber pulls up to the airport entrance like it's been waiting for me forever. I swing the door open, grab my bags, and step out. The asphalt feels solid under my shoes, but my legs wobble just a fraction—like gravity's reviewing my performance and I'm failing the audit.
I check the straps on my bag, adjust the handles, and follow the crowd inside. Airports are strange places. People moving fast, voices overlapping, announcements blaring. My head spins a little, a gentle storm rising behind my eyes. Each step echoes differently than it should. A child cries somewhere behind the security line. A man laughs, but it sounds off. Too loud, too clipped. My fingers twitch.
Check-in counters stretch in neat rows. I slide my suitcase onto the scale, punch in my details, and try to smile politely at the attendant. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. Too practiced. Too wide. My chest tightens.
"Everything okay, miss?" she asks.
I nod. Words stick like wet paper in my throat. I hear my voice somewhere else, whispering, "Do it right. Don't make mistakes. Don't be late." Not hers. Mine.
Boarding pass printed. Bags tagged. I pull my small carry-on behind me, careful not to drag it. The hallways are bright, polished, humming like some mechanical heartbeat I can't sync to.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My aunt.
I almost let it go to voicemail, almost. But I don't.
"Hello?" I say, trying to sound normal, though my voice feels foreign in my mouth.
"Mira, sweetheart," she says, the worry pouring through the line like too-strong coffee. "Are you at the airport yet? Did you get your bags checked? Are you sure you're okay? You sounded… distant this morning."
I grip the phone tighter than I should, my knuckles whitening. "I'm fine," I say. My own voice surprises me. It's steady. But I can feel the tremor behind it, the small pulse of panic trying to rise.
"Remember, the doctor is expecting you," she continues, softer now, coaxing, but still sharp. "Try to… talk to him. Tell him what you're feeling. Please, Rumi."
I nod even though she can't see me. I force a smile into the receiver, the same polite, careful smile I wear like armor every day. "I will," I whisper.
Her voice hesitates. "I love you. Call me when you're at the hotel. Promise?"
"I promise," I say.
She hangs up. The line goes dead, and I am left with the hum of the airport around me, the weight of her concern pressing down, mingling with my own internal storm. The shadows behind my eyes twitch again. The echoes of my own whispered doubts, the little shifting of letters and faces that shouldn't be there, all rise at once—but I push them down. Keep them tucked away for now.
I find a quiet bench near the security line, set my bags beside me, and breathe. I try to ground myself in the world that's still moving, oblivious to the subtle fractures in my perception. The lights are bright. The people are too loud. The air smells like perfume and recycled metal. Everything is fine. Or it should be.
I check my boarding pass again. Then my phone. Then my bags. And once more, just to be sure, I take a slow breath, trying to remind myself: I am leaving. I am moving. I am still here.