They always say it gets better. That it's just a phase, a storm that passes, a night that ends with sunrise. But some nights don't end. Some storms just live inside you.
I opened my eyes, not because I wanted to—but because my body still hadn't gotten the memo. Another morning. Another mistake. The ceiling above me didn't care that I was alive, and I envied it for that.
"Get up," I whispered to myself, the words barely leaving my dry throat. "Get up."
I didn't. Not yet.
The silence in my room wasn't peaceful. It was suffocating. Like being buried alive under the weight of nothing. Pictures of achievements still hung from a version of me that no longer existed—if he ever did at all. Dust collected on trophies that weren't even mine to begin with. And the mirror? I stopped looking into that traitor years ago. I already knew what I'd see. Hollow eyes. Dead skin. A mistake in human form.
A part of me wanted to believe someone cared. That maybe someone would knock on the door and ask how I'm doing. But I live in a house, not a home. Walls that echo, not embrace. People that pass by like I'm furniture—cheap, broken, and too much trouble to throw out.
I whispered again, "Useless. Unworthy. Disgrace... No ki- HaahhaHa! They would..."
This time, I laughed. A dry, bitter sound that felt foreign to even me.
Yes... Haha. Yes, I was left behind. Again. Again. Again.
But here's the part no one likes to say out loud: sometimes, it's not them, not others, and not anything but...
It's you.
I should've never been here. Born because of an accident, a moment of human importance. No one asks to be alive—but I, most of all, never wanted this. Existing like this... half-flesh, half-ghost.
And yet, here I am. Still breathing. Still moving. Still pretending.
8:28 a.m.
Late again.
I pull on the same school clothes I wore yesterday. And maybe the day before. They smell like me—emptiness and sleep. I step outside. The sun is bright, and it burns. People pass me by. They're real, I think. I'm not sure at all. Unfortunate.
Every step toward school feels like a punishment. Like dragging a corpse uphill and pretending it's just a heavy backpack.
I slip through the school gates without a word, no one noticing, no one asking. That's the one thing I've gotten good at: being invisible. Being the "nobody" who doesn't raise his hand. Who doesn't join the conversations. Who sits in the very back of the class—not because he wants to hide, but because it's the only place that matches how small he feels.
The teacher gives me a glance. Not anger. Not pity. Just tired indifference. I nod like I care. I don't.
I take my seat and let the noise drown around me. Voices, laughter, whispers—none of it reaches me. I could scream right now and no one would flinch. Not because they're cruel. But because they've already forgotten I'm here.
And maybe... maybe that's fair.
I'm not the victim. I'm the villain of my own life. I let this happen. I chose to rot in silence. I made the choice not to change. To let the pain win. I wear it like armor. Like skin.
People always talk about who left them. But me?
The one who left behind.
And the one who did this?
...Was myself.