I woke before the sun,long before the rest of the house even stirred.The sky outside my window was still black,the kind of darkness that doesn't careif you're ready for another day or not.
My room felt cold.Not the kind of cold you can fix with a blanket—a deeper kind that settles inside your bones,making you feel older than you are.
I pushed myself up slowly,my movements stiff,as if I had aged years overnight.My sheets clung to me,wrinkled and damp with sweatI didn't remember shedding.
Nightmares again, maybe.I never remember them,only the exhaustion they leave behind.
I sat at the edge of the bed,feet touching the floorboards that creaked quietly,like they were whisperingthat the house was awake too.
Outside, a stray car passed by,its headlights cutting through the darknessand briefly illuminating the walls of my room—blank walls with stories buried in them.Stories that started long before I had the wordsto defend myself.
I reached for my phoneout of habit more than hope.The empty lock screen stared back:no notifications,no messages,not even a random spam textpretending to care.
The silence felt heavier.
I stood up and walked toward the mirror.The old wooden frame had a crack near the corner,one I made years agowhen I'd accidentally knocked it over.My father almost hit me for it—because "breaking things means you're careless."
I wasn't careless.I was just a kid.But kids in my house weren't allowed to make mistakes—not even by accident.
My reflection looked pale,eyes half-lidded,dark circles smudged beneath them.My hair stuck out awkwardly on one side,a reminder that I'd fallen asleepthe second my body touched the bed.
I studied myself the way you study a stranger.The expression,the posture,the hollowness behind the eyes.
It didn't look like someone living a life—more like someone enduring one.
A soft knock echoed from the room next door.A sibling shifting in sleep.A reminder that the house was full of people,yet somehow I was always alone.
I moved to the windowand pulled the curtains slightly.Outside, the neighborhood street looked empty.
The wind rustled the treesand the leaves scraped against each otherlike they were whispering secrets.Secrets I wished I could understand.
I leaned my forehead against the glass,letting the cold seep into my skin.It grounded me in a way nothing else did.
A memory drifted into my mind—one from childhood.
I was seven,sitting on this same bedbut smaller,thinner,crying quietlybecause I didn't finish a homework sheetand my parents called me "useless."
I remembered thinking, even then,that if I worked harder,if I became mature,if I tried to be perfect,maybe they'd stop being disappointed.
I was wrong.
No matter what I did,their eyes always held that same shade of dissatisfaction,as if I was a mistakethey couldn't return.
The thought made my chest tighten,but I forced myself to breathe steadily.
I went to my desk,the wooden surface scratched and scattered with pensI never used unless I needed to.
The room was too quiet.The kind of quietthat lets your thoughts speak louder than they should.
A small voice in me whispered,"What's the point of today?"
I didn't answer.Because I didn't know.Because every day felt likeperforming a life I wasn't built for.
I sat in my chair,head resting against the back,and stared at the ceiling.
The light outside was slowly growing,changing the room's shadows,reminding me that time moveswhether I want it to or not.
A bird chirped from a distant tree,a sound too soft to argue with my thoughts.
I inhaled slowly,exhaled even slower.The weight in my chest didn't lighten,but I accepted itthe way you accept rain during monsoon season—you can't stop it,so you just endure it.
And somewhere in that heavy morning,a quiet, tired realization settled in:
I wasn't afraid of breaking down anymore.
I was afraidthat collapsingwas starting to feel normal.