Night doesn't fall today.It descends and heavy, like a curtain made of wet fabric.By the time I reach home, my legs feel like they belong to someone else,and my chest aches the way muscles do after drowning.
The house is quiet, but not peaceful.It's the type of quiet that feels like it's holding its breath,waiting for something to go wrong.
I step inside as silently as possible.The floorboards still creak under me,exposing me like they always do.
My parents sit in the living room,faces lit by the bluish glow of the television.They don't look at me—not at first.
But the moment they hear the door close,their heads turn in perfect sync.
"Back already?""Did you study?""Or did you waste time again?"
Their voices feel like arrows.Small, thin, but deadly when they hit in the same place every day.
I want to say,"I tried.""I'm tired.""My chest hurts.""My mind hurts.""Everything hurts."But every word rises and dies in my throat.
I just bow my head and move toward my room.
"Hey," my mother calls, "don't walk away when I'm talking."
I freeze.Not because I want to—but because fear freezes me before thought can catch up.
My mother scoffs under her breath."You're getting older but becoming more useless."
The words are nothing new,but tonight they feel heavier.Like they were dipped in lead.
I slip into my room and close the door quietly,pressing my back against it.
My hands shake.My breath stutters.My heartbeat feels like someone is knocking violently from inside my ribs.
I slide down to the floor.Sit with my knees pulled against my chest.The room is dark,but darkness feels kinder than anything else today.
For a long moment, I just breathe—or try to.
Each inhale sounds louder than it should.Each exhale trembles.
I don't know if this is panic,anxiety,or something worse.All I know is that it hurts in a way I can't describe to anyone.
I crawl into bed eventually,curling into the blanket like a wounded animal.The mattress is cold.The sheets smell faintly of sweat from the morning.
The ceiling stares back at me.A blank, pale surfacethat has watched me break quietly for years.
The silence is overwhelming.
It's not the kind that comforts.It's the kind that makes your thoughts scream louder because there's nothing else competing with them.
And they whisper things I don't want to hear.
"You're falling behind.""Everyone else is moving on.""You're stuck.""You're failing.""You're making your parents hate you.""You'll never catch up.""You're not built for living."
I cover my ears.As if that can block out thoughts.
I squeeze my eyes shut.As if darkness inside darkness can feel safer.
But the weight doesn't leave.It presses down harder,like something invisible is lying on top of me,crushing,suffocating,smothering.
I try to breathe slowly—in, out, in, out.But every breath feels wrong.
My chest tightens until the air has to fight to enter.
And then—
A tear slips out.Just one.Unexpected.Quiet.
I stare at the ceiling through blurry eyes.
I'm not crying because I'm sad—I'm crying because I'm tired.Exhausted beyond anything sleep can fix.Tired in the bones.Tired in the soul.Tired in the heartbeat that keeps going even when everything in me wants stillness.
In my head,the field appears again.
The flat grass.The black sky.The rain that falls soft and cold.And the piano playing "Drowning Love."A melody that feels like my whole life compressed into sound—fragile, beautiful, breaking.
I imagine lying there,feeling the rain soak my clothes,the wind brushing my hair,the ground holding me gently.
I imagine breathing out one last time…and not needing another.
But instead—I whisper into the dark:
"Just survive tonight."
I turn onto my side,pull the blanket tighter,and stare at the wall until my eyes sting.
Outside,dogs bark in the distance.Cars rumble down the road.Life continues everywhere except inside my room.
Inside here,time doesn't move.It just weighs.
The night stretches long.Too long.So long that it feels like it's trying to swallow me whole.
And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next,a thought forms—quiet, fragile, dangerous:
"If every night is like this… how many more can I survive?"