That night, at exactly 10:34 PM, Calli was pacing restlessly in their living room, her bare feet making soft thuds against the cold cement floor. Her arms were folded tightly over her chest, and her eyes kept darting toward the wall clock above the doorway.
Where was she?
It was Sunday—her mother didn't have work today. And even when she did take side jobs, she was always home by 9:00 PM at the latest. Always. Her punctuality was almost like clockwork, something Calli could count on—if not her affection, then at least her schedule.
But tonight was different. And her gut twisted with a sense of dread she didn't know how to name.
Then—click—the sound of the gate creaking open, followed by the heavy shuffle of someone approaching the front door. The knob turned clumsily, Thatand the door flung open with a force that startled her.
Calli froze.
But the relief that flooded her chest when she saw it was only her mother vanished just as quickly.
Because something was wrong.
Her mother stood there swaying, her makeup smeared, lipstick uneven, and hair falling loosely from what used to be a neat bun. The unmistakable stench of alcohol hit Calli like a slap in the face. A bottle—half empty—dangled from her mother's left hand. Her right hand was already raised, pointing directly at Calli with a mocking smirk tugging at her lips.
"Well, would you look at that," her mother slurred, the smirk twisting into something darker. "My little bad luck is still awake."
Calli didn't speak. She simply stood there, rooted to the spot, watching her mother stumble inside.
"You're still here?" her mother continued, dropping the bottle onto the nearby table with a dull thud. "I swear, every time I see you... I remember how much I regret giving birth to you."
The words struck deep, even though she had heard them before.
Calli's fingers curled slightly at her sides. Still, she said nothing.
Her mother laughed bitterly, shaking her head as she slowly moved closer, her heels clicking unevenly on the floor.
"You know what, Callista?" she spat, her voice low and venomous. "You ruined my life. You—you were the beginning of everything falling apart. If it weren't for you, maybe your father wouldn't have left. Maybe I could've been something more."
Her breath smelled of gin, her eyes glassy and cruel. She stepped even closer, now just a few feet away, swaying as she glared at her daughter.
"I should've ended it before you were even born," she whispered, almost like a secret she had been dying to say out loud. "But I was stupid. I kept you. And now look at me. Stuck. With you."
Calli's jaw clenched. Her chest rose and fell slowly, as if trying to control the quiet ache building inside.
She didn't argue. She never did.
Because what was the point?
She had lived with these words for as long as she could remember—barbed insults disguised as drunken confessions. They were sharp. Merciless. And yet, they had become a twisted part of her nights, just like the clock ticking on the wall or the dim light flickering in the kitchen.
Still, no matter how many times she heard them, they never stopped hurting.
And tonight, the pain showed. In her eyes. In the way her lips pressed together just a little tighter. In the way her shoulders sagged under the invisible weight of every cruel word.
"God really cursed me with you," her mother whispered with finality before stumbling toward the other bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her with a hollow bang that echoed in the silence.
Calli remained standing.
The bottle on the table trembled from the slam, the liquid inside still swirling from the movement. Everything was still again—except for the storm quietly raging in her chest.
She lowered herself slowly onto the couch, her eyes fixed on the floor. No tears came. They rarely did anymore. But the pain lingered, raw and dull, like an old wound reopened.
And in the silence of the night, surrounded by shadows and words that bruised like fists, Calli sat alone. Not because there was no one beside her—but because even in a house that should've been a home, love had long been missing.
And the silence that followed hurt even more than the words that came before.
Calli blinked back the burn in her eyes as her thoughts twisted and tangled into noise. It felt like something dark and heavy had crawled into her chest, and now it was whispering—taunting—refusing to let go.
She shut her eyes tightly. Not again. Not this kind of fight again.
Her thoughts grew louder. Some begged her to end it all, to just stop hurting. But her heart—fragile and bruised as it was—kept whispering too. It pleaded for something more. Something gentler than silence. Something better than an ending.
She stood up abruptly.
Without a word, she locked the door behind her, rushed into her room, and pulled out an old, half-filled notebook from the drawer. With trembling hands, she grabbed a pen and let the storm inside her spill into words.
"I Carry What I Cannot Say"
There is a silence that screams when the house falls asleep,
Louder than voices that cut like glass.
And I sit in the center of it, unmoving,
As if stillness could protect me
From the sound of being unwanted.
—She said she regrets me. Again. I don't know how I keep surviving that.
I wonder if the sky feels lonely too
When it's full of stars no one notices.
Because that's what I feel like—
Too visible to be free,
Too invisible to be loved.
—Even when I'm in the room, I'm not really in her world. I never have been.
I keep asking myself if I'm broken
Or just misplaced.
Like maybe I was born in the wrong story,
And this chapter was never meant
To belong to someone like me.
—She called me a curse. And I believed her, a little more tonight.
There are nights when the walls
Are witnesses to my quietest wars.
And the pen becomes my only weapon
Against thoughts that say
"You don't deserve to be here."
—But I wrote anyway. Because maybe writing is proof that I still want to stay.
If pain could paint,
It would color me in shades of shame and silence.
But I trace each bruise with ink instead,
Hoping poems will keep me warm
Where arms have never reached.
—No one hugs me when I break. So I cradle my words instead.
I don't want to end.
Not really.
I just want something to begin—
Something that feels like hope
Instead of always trying to survive.
—I don't want to die. I just want to be okay.
Her hand stilled.
Tears blurred the ink slightly, but she didn't bother wiping them away. The poem sat open before her like a fragile kind of truth—soft, bleeding, but alive.
She took a breath. Not the deepest breath. Not yet. But enough to stay.
For now.
When morning came, the house was wrapped in its usual quiet—broken only by the soft clatter of kitchen utensils and the low hiss of oil in the pan.
Callista had woken up early, as always.
She cooked a simple breakfast: eggs, a bit of fried rice, and some instant coffee brewing in the corner. Nothing special, but it was warm and enough. She even prepared a separate glass of something bitter—her mother's usual hangover remedy. It was a routine she had learned to do without being asked.
She was already dressed in her school uniform, her hair tied neatly, shoes clean, and her bag resting by the door. Her day was beginning—and she intended to start it right, even if everything else wasn't.
She was about to sit down and take her first bite when the front door creaked open. She turned her head instinctively—and stood up quickly.
Her mother had arrived.
Callista smiled, soft and hopeful. "Good morning, Mom," she greeted gently.
But her mother didn't even glance at her.
Not a nod. Not a sound. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
She walked straight to the table, sat down, and began to eat in silence.
Callista swallowed the ache in her throat, sat back down quietly, and ate her breakfast too. It was a quiet meal—one where the loudest thing in the room was the silence between them.
Once they were finished, Calli stood and began clearing the table, washing the dishes with practiced ease, her movements calm and careful. When she finally turned around, assuming her mother had already left—
She froze.
Her mother was still there, standing at the far end of the table, watching her.
Callista's eyes widened a little—not in fear, but in surprise. For a second, her breath caught in her chest. Her mother said nothing, just slowly lifted her hand and revealed a few bills—money.
She placed them on the table without a word, turned around, and walked out the door.
Callista stood there, staring at the money.
It was just cash. But it always came with weight.
She knew she could use it to buy something—maybe something sweet, maybe something she liked. But she also knew that whatever she bought with it... the joy would be temporary. Fleeting. Like sunlight slipping through her fingers.
Just a few seconds of happiness—never enough to stay.
She sighed, long and quiet, and sat down.
What a Monday morning to start the week.
Heavy. Wordless. And extra painful.
But still—Callista closed her eyes for a moment, grounded herself, then whispered quietly in her mind:
"I can do this. Of course I can. I always do."
She grabbed her bag, stood up, and headed for the door—carrying everything, as always, without letting it show.