I wake to the sound of silence. The kind that feels too heavy to be real. The air is thick, like someone has taken all the oxygen from the room. My eyes flutter open, but the world still spins. The echoes of yesterday—the crash, the knock, the fear—pulse through my mind like a bad song that refuses to end.
I try to push myself up, but the weight of everything crashes into me again. My body feels like it's been run over. Every inch aches. It's like my own skin is a foreign thing. I'm fighting to breathe, but each inhale feels like I'm swallowing shards of glass. The tightness in my chest doesn't let up. It never does.
I look around, trying to get my bearings. The room is the same, but everything feels different. Distorted. Like it's being viewed through the fog of a dream. The walls seem to close in, and the window, where light used to pour in, is now obscured by something darker.
"Get up," I mutter to myself, voice hoarse, like I've been screaming for days. "Get up."
But the words feel hollow, like a whisper trying to fill a canyon. My legs refuse to cooperate. They shake beneath me, unstable. I don't know how much longer I can do this. Can I even do this anymore?
I sit there, frozen in time, as the minutes slip by. I think of the ghosts again. My dad's rage, my mother's death, the crash, the endless loop of my own mind. Each memory feels like a crack in the mirror of my soul, pulling apart the person I thought I was. But I can't escape. I know that. The only choice is to face it head-on. To stare into the darkness and hope something—anything—will stare back and tell me it's not the end.
A knock.
This time, it's different. Not the knocking that's always been there, the one that haunts the edges of my mind. This knock feels… real. It's clear, sharp, and it rattles the door, demanding attention.
I stand slowly, my body resisting, but I'm driven by something deeper this time. I can't explain it, but the force of it moves me. The door. I reach for the handle, heart hammering in my chest. The knocking grows louder, faster. A rhythmic pulse that seems to come from my very soul.
I hesitate. What if it's not just a knock? What if it's something more? What if I open that door and there's nothing on the other side? Or worse, what if the worst part of me is waiting there?
A deep breath.
I push the door open.
The light that floods in blinds me, almost burning my eyes. The hallway stretches in front of me, empty. No one is there. But something is different now. The shadows, the memories, the guilt—they don't feel as suffocating. It's still dark, but I can see a little more clearly. The edges aren't as sharp. The weight on my chest isn't as crushing.
Maybe it's just the light playing tricks on me. Maybe it's the exhaustion. But for the first time in a long time, I don't feel entirely alone.
I step forward, each movement heavy with the uncertainty of what's ahead. But there's something else—hope. It feels fragile, but it's there.
The further I walk, the more I realize I'm not just walking through the hallway. I'm walking through myself. Every step is a piece of a journey I've avoided for so long. Every footstep echoes, not in the room, but in my heart.
It's a beginning.
And for once, it doesn't feel like the end.