Lost completely in my books, I didn't realize how late it had become until the house around me grew entirely still. My stepmother and father had already eaten dinner hours ago; I vaguely remembered calling out to them earlier that I would eat later, completely absorbed in catching up on my missed work.
Stepping out of my room into the quiet hallway, I found a plate of dinner left waiting for me on the table. Just as I picked it up, my father stepped out, his eyes softening with quiet concern as he looked at me.
"Do you finish your studies, Iris?" he asked gently. "Are you going to eat now?"
"Yes, Father," I replied, offering a small, reassuring nod. "More or less. I'm just about to eat."
He glanced at the clock on the wall, his expression turning a bit stern, though laced with care. "It's getting very late. Eat quickly and get straight to sleep. Otherwise, you'll going to miss you classes tomorrow."
"I know, Father. Don't worry, I'll be fine," I murmured, carrying my plate back to the sanctuary of my room.
Seeking a bit of comfort and a distraction from the heavy thoughts trying to creep back in, I took my phone and turned on a show while I ate quietly in the dark. But once My dinner was completed and I lay in my bed, the silence of the night rushed back in.
My mind began to drift, poking at the raw edges of the previous night's grief. The familiar restlessness started to claw at my chest, threatening another sleepless cycle.
I told myself, "no.. not tonight. If I don't sleep now, my head will start pounding just like it did yesterday."
Knowing I couldn't risk another brutal, sleepless morning, I reached into my drawer and pulled out a small bottle. Ever since Mother passed away, I had kept a bottle of sleeping pills. I didn't rely on them every night, saving them strictly for times when my schedule was tight, I had to wake up early, and my mind refused to shut down on its own. Tonight was one of those nights.
Swallowing the pill, I lay back against my pillow, waiting for the heavy, weight of sleep to pull me under. It didn't take long. For the first time in days, the restless noise in my brain went completely silent, and I drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber.
The next morning, the shrill ring of my alarm woke me right on time. To my astonishment, my mind felt clear and refreshed. There was no lingering headache, no heavy fog. I got up, dressed, and went out to the kitchen, managing a polite, routine exchange as I asked for breakfast. The words felt a little easier to say today. After eating, I packed my bag and headed out for college.
The contrast to the previous day was night and day. With a clear head, I sat through my lectures, easily absorbing the material and focusing entirely on my studies just like I used to before everything fell apart.
During a break, walking across the campus, I noticed how the heavy tension between Luca and me or the lingering awkwardness in our usual circles, seemed to have smoothed out into something entirely normal, as if nothing had ever happened between us. We interacted effortlessly, just like old times.
It was during moments like these that I also realized how much I was changing. Back then when my social anxiety was at its peak, even standing in a crowded hallway would have made my chest tighten into knots. But lately, as I forced myself to navigate the world day by day, making new acquaintances and exchanging casual smiles with new people in my classes, I realized something remarkable: the crushing weight of my social anxiety was slowly, quietly starting to fade.
That realization of changing myself didn't just appear out of nowhere. It had been forged in the crucible of past regrets.
Long before Mother died, Sophia's sudden passing had been a physical blow to my chest, shattering me from the inside out. Back then, there were so many things I had wanted to say to Sophia, so many conversations I had craved, wanting to talk to her even more than anyone else. But my crushing shyness and social anxiety had kept my lips sealed.
Her death had taught me a brutal, unforgiving lesson: if you hold back from speaking to the person right in front of you, you might lose your chance forever. There were no guarantees of tomorrow. If I didn't speak up in the present, I would spend my future drowning in regret. Driven by that fear, I had started trying to change myself, little by little.
Then came the sudden death of my maternal uncle. Even though I had been trying hard to overcome my problem, some of it still lingered. At that time, I had only managed to master enough courage to speak comfortably with peers my own age or younger. When it came to elders, the wall of anxiety still stood tall. Because of that, I hadn't been able to talk freely with my uncle, nor could I even bring myself to say a proper goodbye before he passed.
He had been such a genuinely good person, always teasing me with a warm smile, which only made me shy away more. Deep down, I had wanted to laugh with him, crack jokes, and talk to him like a normal person, but my anxiety had kept me tongue-tied. The weight of that missed connection, the inability to share those moments or say farewell, left me with a crushing mountain of regrets.
When Mother died so suddenly after that, something inside me finally snapped and rebuilt itself. Standing amidst the wreckage of my life, I made a fierce, unshakeable vow to myself: I will overcome every single weakness I have.
I realized with chilling clarity that my mother was gone. There was no one left to shield me from the world, no one to fight my battles for me. I had to protect myself, and to do that, I had to conquer my own mind.
From that moment on, I began changing drastically. Even when my heart hammered against my ribs, even when cold sweat broke out on my palms, and even when the old terror whispered, What are they going to think of you?, I forced myself forward. Every new person I met, every casual conversation I initiated, was a battleground. I was determined to do my best, step by step, never letting another regret slip through my fingers.