The room was quiet, a soft hum of the city seeping through the walls, a sound I could never quite escape. It's strange, how silence and noise can become one and the same. My eyes are wide open, but it feels like I'm seeing through them for the first time. I lay there, still as a forgotten memory, yet the world outside continues, indifferent to the wreckage within me.
The past few days, or maybe it's been weeks—time doesn't have much meaning anymore—have been a blur. Like walking through a fog that refuses to lift, every step I take seems to lead me deeper into a maze of my own making. I remember the crash, the echo of my mother's voice before the world shattered, but I also remember the knock at the door, and the moment I chose to stop running.
Today is different. Today, something has changed, but I'm not sure what.
I sit up slowly, my limbs heavy like they belong to someone else, but this time, there's a subtle sense of purpose, as though my body is learning the rhythm of life again, piece by piece. The floor beneath me feels cold, sharp against my skin, a reminder that I'm alive, even when everything else has faded into shadow.
The whispers start again. They're never quiet, always buzzing like flies around a wound, but today, I can hear them for what they are—nothing but echoes of fear, of guilt, of the past. And for the first time in years, I understand something that I've been too scared to face: they don't define me. They never did.
I stand, a slow, deliberate motion. The world outside my window feels unreal, like a movie I'm watching through a glass screen. People go about their lives, unaware of the storm brewing inside me. For them, it's just another ordinary day. For me, it's a war that's been raging for longer than I care to remember.
But now, I know. I know that it's okay to stand still. It's okay to feel broken. And it's okay to pick up the pieces, one at a time, even if I don't know where all of them are.
The mirror is on the wall in front of me, and for the first time in ages, I let my gaze linger there. I look at the face that's mine, but not mine. There's a strange recognition, as if I'm meeting myself for the first time, an old acquaintance whose name I've forgotten. My reflection is scarred, weary, eyes too tired to hold the weight of the world, but there's something else there too—something fierce, something unyielding.
I'm still here.
The realization settles into my bones like warmth after a long winter. The trauma that once seemed like an insurmountable mountain—one that I would never be able to climb—isn't a part of me. It's just something that happened. Something that hurt, something that scarred me, but not something that can define my future. I didn't ask for any of this. No one does. But I've got a choice now. I always did.
I take a deep breath. It's shaky, but it's real. The air in my lungs is alive, each inhale a reminder that I'm still breathing, still fighting.
And then the knock comes again.
But this time, I'm not afraid. I know who it is.
I turn toward the door, the weight of the past and present shifting as I move toward it. Each step feels lighter now, like the chains that held me down are finally falling away, piece by piece. The door stands in front of me, a simple barrier between what was and what could be. My hand hovers over the knob, but I don't hesitate this time. I twist it and open the door.
The hallway is empty, but the air feels different, as if it's waiting for something, waiting for me. The emptiness isn't unsettling anymore; it's a space that I can fill. With the next step, I move into the unknown, into a future that doesn't have to be shaped by fear or guilt.
I walk outside, and the sun hits me like a wave, warm and unfamiliar after so long in the dark. The city is alive—people laughing, talking, the sound of distant traffic—but none of it feels overwhelming. I don't have to hide anymore.
The voices in my head are quieter now. They still exist, but they're not in charge. They're just thoughts—fragments of a past that no longer holds any power over me.
I stop on the street corner, looking around as the world continues to move, like a river flowing past. I see people rushing by, their lives just as tangled and complicated as mine, but I don't feel disconnected from them anymore. They don't have to understand what I've been through, and I don't need them to. But for the first time, I feel a part of something bigger—something shared, something human.
A gentle breeze picks up, rustling the leaves in the trees, and I close my eyes, letting it wash over me. The weight of everything that happened, everything I couldn't control, seems to drift away with the wind. I can't change the past, and maybe I don't need to. Maybe I just need to let it be what it was.
A distant memory flashes in my mind—my mother's face, soft with love, whispering "Be safe." Her voice is gone, but it doesn't feel like a loss anymore. It's a quiet echo, a reminder that she wanted me to live. To be safe. To be okay.
Maybe it's time to stop fighting the past, to stop running from it. Maybe it's time to carry it with me, like a scar I don't need to hide. The pain doesn't define me, but it shaped me. It made me who I am today, and today, I'm choosing to move forward.
I open my eyes, and I see the world again. Not as something to fear, but as something to embrace. The city hums around me, but it's not a buzz of chaos. It's the sound of life—fragile, beautiful, and fleeting. But it's mine.
I take a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
The world stretches out before me, infinite in its possibilities. For the first time, I'm no longer trying to outrun my demons. I'm walking beside them, and in doing so, I'm finally free.