I thought the air outside would clear my mind,but it follows me—this silent, shapeless thing sitting in my chest.
I walk across campus like a ghost wearing a human costume.Everyone else seems loud, colourful, full of motion,while I feel like a smudge in the corner of a painting—easy to ignore, easy to forget.
A group of students laugh nearby.The sound hits me too hard.Not because they're laughing at me—but because they're capable of laughing at all.
My legs keep moving even though I don't tell them to.It's habit.Survival disguised as routine.
Halfway to the library, my vision blurs.Not from tears—I don't cry anymore.Even sadness is tired of me.
It's the kind of blur that makes it feel like I'm not inside my body.Like I'm watching myself from a distance,a character in a scene I didn't choose to be part of.
I sit on a bench under a tree.The branches above me look like ribs,like the world itself is breathing heavy.
My phone buzzes again.My parents.A simple text:
"Are you studying or playing?"
Four words.
Four tiny weapons.
It's strange how a message can punch harder than a fist.
I don't reply.I don't have the energy to lie,and telling the truth would only give them new ammunition.
I stare at the screen until the brightness burns my eyes.Then I put the phone face-down.
I don't want to exist in their world today.
When I close my eyes,memories of childhood rise—always uninvited, always sharp.
My parents yelling because I laughed too loud.Hitting me because I didn't stop being "childish."Calling me useless because I didn't understand things as fast as others.
Back then, I thought pain was temporary.That growing up meant escaping it.
But pain is more skilled than that.It grows with you.Learns your language.Adapts to your new fears.Becomes part of your breathing.
Now, even when I lie still,it sits inside me like a second heart.
I open my eyes again.The campus looks blurry around the edges—like it's dissolving,or maybe I am.
Someone walks past me, glancing briefly.Their expression shifts quickly, from neutral to disturbed,as if just looking at me is an inconvenience.I guess that's how anxiety work or it is they really felt that ways?
I lower my head.
My stomach twists.A cold, sinking weight spreads through me.
I know this feeling.I've carried it for years—the sensation that something terrible is coming,that the universe is planning a punishmentfor simply being alive.
It never warns me what the danger is.It just whispers:
"Soon."
I stand up again, because sitting lets the thoughts settle too deeply.My footsteps feel unsteady,as if the ground is shakingeven though everyone else walks normally.
Inside the library, the silence is thick.But not peaceful.More like the silence right before something breaks.
I sit at a table near a window.Open my notebook.Stare at the blank page.
Assignments.Deadlines.Exams.Life.
Everything feels like a mountain I'm expected to move with my bare hands.
My mind tries to focus,but the words blur, swim, disappear.
All I can think of is how every mistakefeels like a grave already waiting for me.
One tiny slip—and I hear their voices again:
"See? You can't do anything right.""You're too weak.""You won't survive like this."
I clench my fists under the table.My nails press into my palms.
My hand and feet is sweatingThe small pain is grounding—the only thing that proves I'm still here.
But the longer I sit,the heavier everything gets.
My breathing shortens.My chest tightens to a point I didn't know was possible.My vision pulses.
I grip the edge of the desk,because I'm afraid that if I don't hold onto something,I'll fall—not physically,but into that dark place inside mewhere thoughts get too loudand escape feels too real.
The walls seem to lean in.The ceiling presses down.My heartbeat becomes a violent knock inside my ears.
And a question rises,quiet but sharp:
"How long can a person keep going like this?"
I swallow hard,eyes trembling,hands shaking uncontrollably now.
Another whisper answers:
"Maybe not very long."
I close my notebook.Stand up slowly.Walk out of the library with steps that barely exist.
Outside, the sky is darker now.Clouds thick like bruises.A wind blows, cold enough to cut through fabric.
It feels like the world is matching my insides again.
And for a moment—just one moment—I imagine lying down on that impossible field of grass,
dark sky,rain falling,piano playing,eyes closing for the last time…the weight finally leaving me.
But instead,I keep walking.
Because breaking is easy.And living—even badly—is something I've become too used to.