The rain begins before I even reach home.a heavy, relentless downpourthat feels like the sky is emptying everything it's held back.
I walk slower than usual,letting the rain soak through my clothes.It feels cold,but calming in a strange way—as if the weather understands me better than any person does.
By the time I reach the front door,my hair is dripping,my shirt clings to my skin,and I can already hear the tension inside the housethrough the walls.
Voices.Not shouting,but sharp enough to cut.
I step inside quietly,water pooling under my feet.
My father doesn't look up from the table.My mother glances at me once,her expression already irritated.
"Why are you wet?" she snaps."As if you don't have a brain."
"I walked," I say simply.
"You could've taken a bus," she fires back.
I don't tell her I didn't want to.I don't tell her that the bus makes me feel trapped,that being around people drains me more than the rain ever could.
Explaining anything in this housealways ends with blame.
I head toward my room,but my father's voice stops me.
"Come here."
I swallow the sigh that wants to escapeand walk toward him.
He doesn't look angry—he looks disappointed.Which somehow hurts more.
"What's going on with you lately?" he asks."You look dead.You move like you're dragging your whole life behind you."
I say nothing.
He continues,"Are you being lazy again?Is that it?"
Lazy.The word slides into my mind like a rusted knife.Not loud,not violent—but effective.
"I'm doing my best," I say quietly.
My mother scoffs."Your best?Then your best is useless."
The room feels smaller.The air feels heavier.
I stare at the floor,not because I'm scared—but because I'm too tired to meet their eyes.
"You need to fix yourself," my father says."Stop being so…empty all the time."
Empty.Another knife.
I want to scream that I'm not choosing this.That I don't wake up wanting to feel nothing.That I'm not empty—I'm overflowing with things I can't show.
But my voice stays silent.
They keep talking.One complaint after another.List after list of everything I'm not doing right.Everything I should be.Everything I'm failing at.
Each word lands on me like another layer of weight.Slow.Steady.Crushing.
When they're finally done,I go to my room and close the door softlybecause slamming it would be a declaration of war.
My clothes cling to me with cold rainwater.But the cold feels better than the heat in my chest.
I sit on the floor.The quiet is loud.Too loud.
Somewhere inside me,a thought murmurs:
"How long can a person live like this?"
I lie back on the floor,staring at the blank ceiling.It's my only witness.Always there.Always silent.
I let my eyes close.Not to sleep—but to escape.
Just a few minutes.Just enough to let the world fade around the edges.
The rain outside softens.The house remains tense.My heartbeat feels slow,steady,almost numb.
And for the first time,I realize something quietly terrifying:
I'm not scared of feeling this way anymore.
I'm scared that I'm gettingused to it.