Midnight does not arrive loudly.
It seeps into the world like ink spilling into water, slow and silent, until everything is stained in darkness.
Richard sat alone on the rooftop of his countryside home, the world beneath him asleep, the sky above him awake.
The old English-style house stood quietly under the endless stretch of stars, its stone walls bathed in pale silver light. The fields surrounding it whispered with the wind, bending softly as if sharing secrets with the night.
He leaned back against the cool tiles and looked upward.
The moon hovered high above—distant, untouchable—yet it felt closer to him than anything on earth. Its light reflected in his blue eyes, and for a moment, it seemed as though he was trying to reach it… not with his hands, but with something deeper inside him.
The night felt heavier than usual.
Richard had always loved the sky. The stars looked like scattered fragments of something once whole—something broken long ago.
Incomplete.
The word formed quietly in his thoughts.
And as the clock struck midnight, memory began to rise.
He was twenty-six now.
But once, he had been different.
He had been a bright child—cheerful, ambitious, always running toward the future instead of away from it. At eleven, the world felt wide and exciting. He would roam through the countryside with his best friend, George, their laughter echoing across empty roads and open fields.
They talked endlessly about video games, dreams of becoming famous creators, explorers, heroes of their own stories. They believed the world was waiting for them.
Back then, the sky felt full—not broken.
But at fourteen, something shifted.
His father began to change.
What started as late nights and silence slowly turned into something darker. Bottles hidden in drawers. Slurred words. Unsteady footsteps. Anger that arrived without warning.
His mother and father fought at every chance they got. The house that once felt warm became a battlefield of sharp voices and shattered trust.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, Richard stopped being a child.
He became his mother's emotional support—her quiet listener, her silent strength. He learned to swallow his own fears so she would not drown in hers.
The cheerful boy who once ran under open skies began to feel something missing inside him.
As if, even then, part of him had already begun to fade.
At fourteen, the fights were no longer occasional.
They became the rhythm of the house.
Morning arguments.
Afternoon silence.
Night explosions.
I never understood how it always began, but I knew how it ended—doors slammed, plates shattered, my mother's trembling voice trying to calm a storm that could not be calmed.
I was the middle child.
Emily, my older sister, would lock herself in her room with music loud enough to drown the shouting. Nick, my little brother, would cry in confusion, too young to understand why love sounded like war.
And me?
I stood in between.
Whenever my father raised his hand, I stepped forward. I don't remember deciding to do it. My body simply moved. My heart pounded in my ears, but my feet never stepped back.
I wasn't brave.
I was afraid.
But fear of him was smaller than fear of losing her.
My mother was gentle—too gentle for this world. Sweet, soft-spoken, always apologizing even when she had done nothing wrong. She was timid, and that was the only thing I hated about her… her silence when she deserved to scream.
I used to wonder why she never fought back.
Why she endured.
Why she stayed.
And then there was the birthday party.
A simple neighborhood celebration. Balloons tied to fences. Children laughing. The smell of cake and grilled food floating through the air.
People I saw almost every day were there.
People who knew my name.
That night, my father drank too much.
His voice grew louder than the music. His words sharper than the knives on the table. He accused her of things that made no sense, humiliated her in front of everyone.
And I stood there.
Frozen.
I could feel it—like a spark inside my chest.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Shame.
A burning, crawling feeling under my skin.
What will they think?
The question echoed louder than my father's shouting.
I imagined their eyes on me. Their whispers. Their judgment.
I wanted the ground to open and swallow me whole.
That was the first time I felt it clearly—
That something inside me was breaking.
Or perhaps…
Splitting.
know it sounds foolish.
But the fear of being judged never left me.
After that birthday party, something inside me changed. I began pulling away from my friends without realizing it. Conversations became shorter. Invitations became fewer. Laughter felt forced.
My world grew smaller.
School.
Home.
Repeat.
I spent more time with my siblings instead. Emily grew distant in her own way, building walls with music and silence. Nick followed me around, still young enough to believe I had answers.
But I didn't.
By the time I graduated school, I had already become an introvert—not the quiet, mysterious kind people admire, but the kind that fades into the background.
At university, I lived in a small rented room.
I tried to make friends. I really did.
But I always felt out of place. I wasn't handsome. I wasn't confident. I wasn't interesting. I had no girlfriend. No close group of friends. Just a few classmates I talked to regularly.
They had their circles. Their plans. Their laughter.
I was present—but never included.
A loner who wasn't completely alone.
And then, just after graduation, the world stopped.
Covid hit.
I went back to my hometown.
Strangely, my father had changed. As if something inside him had burned out. He became calmer—almost saint-like. My mother forgave him. My siblings forgave him.
And I did too.
At least, that's what I told myself.
During lockdown, I spent time with my family… but mostly, I stayed in my room. Scrolling endlessly on my phone. Watching other people live their lives through a screen.
Locking my door became a habit.
Minimal conversation. Minimal presence.
It felt safer that way.
In 2023, I tried to socialize again. I forced myself to go out, to speak, to reconnect.
But something was wrong.
My speech would slur slightly when I was nervous. Words didn't come smoothly. I became hyper-aware of every sentence I spoke. It took effort just to sound normal.
Whenever I talked to people, a part of me wished I were back home in my room.
Safe. Unseen.
My family noticed something was off. I could see it in their eyes.
But no one said anything.
And the fear remained.
What will people think of me?
What will my university friends think—now that they are successful, working, moving forward?
Will they see me as behind? As weak?
Sometimes I felt like I shouldn't even leave my room.
As if the world outside was judging me before I even stepped into it.
And sometimes…
Sometimes it felt like this fear wasn't just emotional.
It felt deeper.
Like something inside me was fractured.
Like I was living only half a life.