It's 9:03 a.m. when my eyes open.
Not because I'm rested. Not because the day feels inviting. Just because my body gave up on sleep.
I don't even remember when I drifted off. One moment, the ceiling was spinning, the fan whispering maybe-maybe-maybe into the silence. The next, the light started slipping through the curtain. Soft, pale. Unbothered.
The "gn" I sent him is still there.
Still not seen.
Still unread.
Still untouched like I don't exist on the other side of the screen.
I don't know why I thought it might be different.
That maybe I'd wake up to something small. Just a "you too" or even an emoji. Anything to remind me I'm not always the one reaching.
But no.
And this time, it doesn't even hurt. Not in the sharp, immediate way.
It's dull. Quiet. The kind of hopeless that hums under your skin like a low-grade fever. You don't scream. You just… exist in it. Half here, half gone.
I stay curled in bed, eyes blinking at the ceiling. Wondering if this is just how it's going to be from now on. Loving in the quiet. Breaking without sound. Surviving on guesswork.
I think about calling someone.
Not him.
Not today.
Someone else. Anyone who could remind me I'm still here.
But I don't.
Because that's the thing with me—
I never reach out.
Even when I want to. Even when I'm seconds away from typing the words "Can we talk?" I stop myself.
Because asking for help feels like exposure. Like holding my own sadness out in trembling hands, waiting to be seen.
And I can't handle being seen like that.
I thought of Aurora. Of course I did.
She's the safest place I know.
She'd answer. No hesitation.
She'd listen and hold me and make me tea and remind me I'm not crazy for feeling like this.
But I didn't call her.
Because I love her too much to break in front of her.
She would carry it. Even if she never said a word, she would. She always does. And I would hate myself for it.
Because no matter how soft her love is, my guilt is louder.
And that guilt says:
Don't put your weight on someone who's already holding their own.
So I stayed silent.
Because even though I know Aurora would never call me a burden, I've always been terrified of becoming one.
I've spent most of my life showing the world only 10% of myself.
The safe parts. The quiet disappointments. The polished pain.
Anything more than that, and I start to spiral.
Because then come the voices.
You're too sensitive. Too dramatic. Too selfish.
Too evil.
Yes. That word. The one I always come back to when I feel too much.
Evil—not in the fairytale sense. Not in the way villains laugh in shadows. But evil like wrong. Like my sadness is an inconvenience. Like my hunger for love is a flaw.
So I keep it in.
Tuck it behind my ribs and let it gnaw from the inside.
And when it gets too loud, I make plans.
That's my way out. My version of rebellion. Of breathing.
So I made a plan.
A solo date. Just me.
No one else. No pretending. No smiling because I'm expected to. No lying about "being fine."
I wanted to take myself out. Dress how I wanted. Walk like I meant it. Drink something warm, write in a journal, maybe even relax with the idea of peace for a few hours.
I wanted to step outside the sadness.
Even for a day.
So I started listing ideas in my phone.
Outfit combinations. Cafés with yellow lighting and soft chairs. Bookstores I hadn't visited in years. A new pen. The good kind.
And for a moment, I felt okay. Almost excited.
Almost like… me.
Then came the knock.
Three short taps against the door.
I didn't move. Just stared.
Then I asked, "What now?"
Her voice cut through the wood like always.
"What now?" she snapped back. "What is this nonsense about a solo date? Who goes on dates alone? You're not going anywhere."
And just like that—
My hope folded in on itself.
All those little things I planned?
All the softness I tried to hold onto?
Gone. Shrinking under the weight of her disapproval.
I closed my eyes. There it was again.
Too much.
I didn't argue. Didn't explain.
I just slammed the door shut.
Not to be dramatic. Not to fight. Just… because I didn't have the energy to keep proving my right to exist.
I dropped back into bed.
The same spot. The same ceiling. The same silence.
And suddenly, everything felt like an appointment.
Joy.
Rest.
Breathing.
Everything had to be scheduled. Approved. Justified.
Like I had to fill out a form just to go on a walk. Ask permission just to like myself. Convince people that being alone didn't mean being broken.
But apparently, it does.
Apparently, a girl wanting time with herself is selfish. Or strange. Or just… wrong.
I wanted to scream.
"I am tired "
"I am sick"
"I'll die like this"
" I have seen enough and I am not over reacting"
"This is just my breaking point after 19 long years of not crying"
I wanted to scream. But the voice in my head didn't let me.
I wanted to cry.
I didn't cry.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
But the tears were stuck somewhere deep, where even I couldn't reach them.
So I stayed still.
Swallowed the lump. Let the ache spread.
And wondered if I'd ever get to live without explanation.
If I'd ever wear that navy dress and not feel like an imposter.
If I'd ever be allowed to exist outside someone else's definition of enough.
If I'd ever take that solo date and not feel guilty for it.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But someday—
I will.
I'll take myself out.
I'll walk slow, and breathe deep, and buy myself a book I don't need.
And I won't apologize for it.
Not to my mother.
Not to my family.
Not to the world.
Not to that cruel voice inside me that calls me names I don't deserve.
One day, I'll stop needing permission just to feel human.
Until then, I'll keep making plans.
Even if they stay in my phone.
Even if I never leave my room.
Because planning softness is still a form of rebellion.
And right now, that's the only fight I have the energy to win