Some stories are not written for entertainment. They are written because silence became too heavy. Because pain needed a shape. Because someone, somewhere, might need to feel less alone.
This is not a love story. Not really. It's a story about seeing — and being seen too late. About how loud quiet people can become when no one listens.
Every hallway has someone walking through it, breaking a little more with every step.They laugh louder than they should. They sit in the same seat every day.They wave when waved to.And sometimes, they vanish while still sitting right there.
This is for the ones who type "Hey" and never hit send. Who leave notes in places no one looks.Who shine so brightly it blinds people from seeing the flicker beneath.
It's for the friend who didn't speak up. For the one who meant to reach out and didn't.For the one who thinks about it still — in the quiet moments, when the guilt sinks in.
These words are not meant to be perfect. They are not meant to fix what cannot be undone.They are meant to sit with whoever needs them.To say: someone understands. Even if it's too late.
Sometimes, a person doesn't want to die. They just want the ache to stop.Sometimes, the world is so loud that the only way to survive is to disappear.
This story exists as a kind of echo. For the questions no one asked.For the replies that came too late.For the spaces where people used to be.
And maybe, just maybe—For someone else walking the same quiet path. So they know:They are not invisible. And they are not alone.
If only 1 person reads this i will feel like it mattered.
This was never meant to sound polished.
Not every sentence ends clean. Not every line follows a rule.Because pain doesn't follow rules.And neither does the mind when it's unraveling.
The voice in these pages? It's jagged for a reason.It rambles.It hesitates.It repeats itself.It stops mid-thought, then starts again — not to confuse, but because that's how thoughts sound when a heart is tired.
The lowercase letters, the missing punctuation, the quiet phrasing — none of that is laziness.It's intentional. It mirrors how the world feels when someone's fading from it.Small.Out of place.Unseen.
This story wasn't written to impress.It was written to feel real.To show how things actually are inside someone who's pretending to be fine.Someone who smiles too brightly.Laughs too hard.Texts "Hey" and then deletes it.
The boy doesn't have the right words.The girl doesn't either.That's the point.
Because in moments like these, nobody knows what to say.And yet, not saying anything at all — that's where the damage grows.
This story doesn't offer a resolution.There's no grand fix.No perfect closure.
Because real life doesn't always give those either.
Instead, this story offers a mirror.To anyone who's stayed silent.To anyone who's slipped through the cracks.To anyone who's wondered if they mattered enough for someone to notice.
It was written in fragments.Because some people live in fragments.
And sometimes, the most broken things speak the loudest — when the world finally listens.