I noticed it first because it didn\u2019t belong. A paper sat in the far corner of my bedroom, half-forgotten like it had been waiting there longer than I\u2019d been paying attention. I couldn\u2019t have told you why it pulled at me. There wasn\u2019t any clear reason. It was just\u2026 an itch in my chest, the kind that doesn\u2019t go away until you acknowledge it.
Then I saw the pen.
It was under the bed, pushed back in the dust and shadows. I stared at it for a second, and something in me shifted\u2014like the part of my mind that usually stays quiet had finally decided it was done obeying. My body moved before I could think about it. I crawled under the bed and reached out with the same urgency you use when you don\u2019t believe you\u2019ll get another chance.
The pen was real. Clear blue. BIC. No cap.
I don\u2019t know what expression I had on my face, but I remember feeling oddly sure of myself, as if I\u2019d found a door where there should only have been a wall. My eyes blurred\u2014not from sadness exactly, but from how fast everything in me was moving. I knew what I wanted to do. I didn\u2019t want to keep everything trapped inside my ribs until it started eating through me. I was going to write. I was going to write letters\u2014to whoever my saviour or helper would be, in this life, in whatever form that means. I promised myself right there, in that bright strip of light I pulled it into, that I wouldn\u2019t stop until I found a way out of this house.
I jumped to the study desk and grabbed the paper from the corner like I was afraid the moment would disappear. The room looked harsher under the lights. My hands shook once, then steadied. I tore more pages free from books piled nearby, because one sheet wasn\u2019t enough. I wrote until the adrenaline in my body slowed down, until my thoughts stopped sprinting and started lining up on the page.
For the first time in days\u2014maybe weeks\u2014it felt like I could breathe.
Not because everything was suddenly better. It wasn\u2019t. But I had somewhere to put what was happening in my head. I needed a person who could hold the weight of my words without demanding I perform happiness for them. There was nobody like that. Not in the way I needed. The people around me cared, technically. They could listen and nod and offer comfort. But they didn\u2019t truly leave their lives behind to step into mine. They didn\u2019t rearrange their routines to make space for what I was carrying. They didn\u2019t understand what it means to keep swallowing pain until it becomes ordinary. So I wrote.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t finish the thought. My eyes started burning, and then my face did what it always does when I finally stop resisting\u2014grimacing, tearing up, the kind of crying that makes you feel both embarrassed and powerless at the same time. The paper soaked through. My nose ran without permission. My body couldn\u2019t decide whether it was trying to protect itself or collapse. Ring.<\/em> Dear saviour or helper, \u2026To be continued<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Dear saviour or helper,
I don\u2019t know what to do or say anymore. Things feel too hard to keep pretending they don\u2019t weigh on me, and I\u2019m scared of ending up numb\u2014not calm, not healed. Just empty. Because I feel everything. It\u2019s too strong to ignore, but I don\u2019t know what to do with it. I\u2019ve been cruel to my mom while she\u2019s still recovering, and I hate that I can\u2019t take it back. I probably pushed Adam away too\u2014if he left because I wasn\u2019t good enough to stay. I keep replaying it, searching for the exact moment when everything split apart. I tell myself maybe it\u2019s my fault. And when I try to prove that it isn\u2019t, I only end up with more questions. I feel like I\u2019ve become the thing I fear.
Not one specific moment. Not one specific argument. Something deeper. A person with the same patterns as the betrayal that formed me. For not only being the first to abandon us, but for leaving us behind in a way that didn\u2019t just hurt\u2014it broke the balance in our home and left the pieces uneven. Dad. I can still feel it. The scar isn\u2019t only on skin; it\u2019s the memory of that day carved into the way my body reacts when something goes quiet. It\u2019s the way certain words make my stomach tighten. That scar never heals properly. It just learns how to hide. And now Mom and Adam\u2014different circumstances, different people\u2014keep tearing at it, as if they don\u2019t realize how close it is to the surface. I don\u2019t even know what I\u2019m writing. Why I\u2019m writing. What I want from this page besides release. I just want freedom. I want to be delusional, if delusion means having something bright to reach for. I want a dream I can actually aim at. Something simple enough to fit inside a sentence, but impossible to explain without the conversation turning endless and tangled. People wouldn\u2019t understand why I insist it\u2019s simple. They don\u2019t have to live inside the same storm I do.
I\u2019ve thought it through. I didn\u2019t come to my conclusions out of nowhere. I used what I know from experience, from observation, from the way patterns repeat whether I want them to or not. It doesn\u2019t take a genius to understand the shape of a problem when you\u2019ve been inside it for a long time. All I wanted\u2014what I keep wanting\u2014is to say, out loud and with pride:
\u201cMy trauma is not my identity.\u201d
I want to be able to talk about other things in my life. Achievements. Goals that have nothing to do with family drama. Good news that doesn\u2019t come with the shadow of an argument attached. I want to learn how to exist without always returning to the same wound. My\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was angry and sad. Angry at them\u2014for everything. Angry at whoever decided I should be born into a life where I had to learn survival before I learned peace. Angry at my creator. Angry at Him. It sounds harsh, but it was the truth of how I felt at that moment.
The \u201cwhy me\u201d questions came like they were owed a response. Why didn\u2019t He make me resilient? Why didn\u2019t He make me strong? Why didn\u2019t He put me in a stable family where gratitude came naturally instead of like a performance I had to force? But the more I asked, the more I found the same answer sitting behind my anger: none of it would change what\u2019s in front of me. Still, I kept searching.
Now, I look back and find it almost funny, in the way you find old bruises funny only because they\u2019re not fresh anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
The bell woke me up again.
Fourth time today, during a lesson. I could tell the teachers had stopped expecting anything from me. Maybe they were exhausted by my presence. Maybe they\u2019d decided I was beyond help. I could picture them in the staff room\u2014soft voices, sympathy disguised as gossip. It didn\u2019t matter. I still felt it: those looks that said they pitied me, that they\u2019d already written my future in pencil. I can\u2019t pass a single pair of them without catching that expression. Then the hallway chatter begins when they think I can\u2019t hear. Not everyone says things directly. Some people don\u2019t need to. Their silence is loud enough. And my classmates? Everyone apart from Delilah acts like I\u2019m disgusting. The weirdo who sleeps in class. The girl who doesn\u2019t eat. The one with the black notebook\u2014the notebook that\u2019s always out, always scribbling, always recording something they think they understand. They don\u2019t understand. They never will. They look at it like a symptom instead of a lifeline.
I\u2019m sick of it. Tired. Exhausted. I can\u2019t deal with having to take care of my mom at home while I\u2019m trying to survive at school. I can\u2019t carry my sanity, my image, my grades, and still pretend I\u2019m fine when the day begins. It\u2019s too much.
Wait\u2014my grades.
That\u2019s the part that matters. It\u2019s the only escape I\u2019ve been able to count on. If I lose focus, if my grades keep dropping, then I lose the route I\u2019ve been building in my head: school success leading to freedom, leading to leaving. The worst part is that everything at home feels like it can collapse instantly, but my grades\u2014my grades are the one thing that should move in a straight line. Except they\u2019re not. They plummeted when everything started going wrong. And now I\u2019m staring at them like they might be the last thing holding me in place. NO. It can\u2019t be over because my grades couldn\u2019t keep up with my life. It can\u2019t be that simple. And yet\u2026 I feel broken enough to believe it anyway. As if I can\u2019t accomplish anything. As if everything is ruined. I looked at Delilah. She was sitting like she belonged there. Like her body had never learned the habit of shrinking. I admired her without trying to become her. She made me angry sometimes\u2014not at her, but at how easily people like her seem to exist. Like the world gives them space automatically.
I had let myself go. Physically. Emotionally. I stopped caring about beauty standards and social expectations because after everything happened, they felt like pointless rules written for a different life. But not caring doesn\u2019t protect you. It just changes the way people judge you. They assume if you stop performing, you must be failing. I don\u2019t want to create an image that says \u201cI\u2019m okay\u201d when I\u2019m not. That\u2019s not who I am now, and I don\u2019t have the energy to keep pretending. If my face doesn\u2019t look friendly, if I don\u2019t smile enough, if my eyes look tired, then fine. Let them decide whatever they want.
I\u2019m trying to cope at home. I\u2019m trying to hold myself together long enough to survive tomorrow. The only thing linking my life to school is the success I might earn by the end of it. That success is supposed to be an escape route. But when I look at my grades, I don\u2019t know if that route is still available.
And there\u2019s no stable shortcut in life. Not really.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n\n\n\n
Today was a weird day\u2014not loud, not dramatic, just quietly wrong. I kept thinking about things I\u2019d forgotten: forgotten people, forgotten feelings, forgotten versions of myself that existed before everything became routine pain. I don\u2019t know how to recover properly. I don\u2019t know what the right steps are. I only know I want to get there. I want to reach that place where my mind doesn\u2019t feel like a room full of locked doors. Is it wrong to want something without having to work for it? People don\u2019t even have proper goals anymore\u2014not like they used to. These days it’s a comparison instead of ambition. It\u2019s envy dressed up as motivation. Watching other people succeed and thinking my only option is to chase them, not myself. But when you climb to the top by using other people as a measuring stick, you can start to feel empty\u2014like you didn\u2019t actually build anything that belongs to you. Like you climbed just to escape embarrassment, not to reach meaning. Then guilt shows up. It\u2019s always there, remembering who you stepped on\u2014whether you meant to or not. Today, for the first time in a long time, I felt something different. I wanted something for personal benefit, not to outpace or shame anyone else. I wanted it because I deserved a life that made sense to me. Something I could reach without turning it into a competition. And then I realized something else: I let myself go because I stopped believing I could be happy in any real way. I used to go out with friends more often. I posted online all the time. I wasn\u2019t always joyful\u2014I wasn\u2019t magically protected from suffering. But at least I pretended. And pretending was still better than this. This feels like a loop that never ends. A cycle I keep walking through until I don\u2019t recognize my own pace. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll ever get my escape. But I\u2019m writing this down, so maybe that means I haven\u2019t given up. And now I\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cChloe!!! Get over here!\u201d
Mom interrupted my train of thought. I took a deep exhale, as if I wasn\u2019t able to breathe whenever I wrote these letters. I went to her\u2014whatever she needed to say\u2014because I wanted it over and done with so I could go back. Go back and relieve my thoughts through writing again.
But the feeling was too voracious. It had become an addiction of sorts.
For some reason, I felt the need to smile. I\u2019d gone mad, yes\u2014but at least I could express it. That twisted thought somehow gave me joy.
\u201cI need you to get your arse out of that bedroom and clean up this house. You need to do your chores like a normal daughter would.\u201d
\u201cWell, I\u2019m not good enough for you, am I, mother?\u201d I thought. \u201cI\u2019m not normal? I wonder why.\u201d
\u201cAnd also, you have a package,\u201d she added. \u201cIt\u2019s on the kitchen counter.\u201d
The moment she said that, I ran to the kitchen to see what it was\u2014who it was from. \u2018Adam?\u2019 I hoped. There was a note attached to it.
~ Happy Birthday Chloe. Love Simon.
I\u2019d even forgotten the day before was my birthday.
As disappointed as I was\u2014in myself, and in the sender\u2014I still took the package and carried it back to my bedroom, ignoring my mother\u2019s glare. I sat on my bed, a mix of excitement and happiness flooding through me. It felt like I was holding a light\u2014something that would help me survive. That\u2019s how much small joys mean to me. They glue together the fragments of my sanity, trying to make me feel whole.
I opened the box.
A laptop. A MacBook Pro. M3!
Wow.
It was one of the best gifts ever. I actually wanted a laptop. How did he know?
At the bottom of the box, there was a letter. A letter from him. My hand reached for it\u2014
And then I heard loud footsteps charging toward my bedroom door.
\u201cChloe! What is wrong with you! Why can\u2019t you listen to me? Simple instructions!\u201d
My heart felt like it stopped. My brain went into a pin-drop silence, and yet panic erupted all at once\u2014chaos. I was too scared. Her shouting was a trigger. A trigger for shock I couldn\u2019t explain. It felt like I was reliving something that had already happened to me.
I fell to my knees.
My mother kept shouting.
I crouched and covered my ears with my hands, gripping them so hard out of fear. This wasn\u2019t ordinary fear. It felt like I was about to die. My lungs felt tired, but my heart was racing. I tried to breathe and couldn\u2019t. I saw blood on the floor\u2014my nose was bleeding.
I looked up at my mother, and I couldn\u2019t believe my eyes.
Then, before everything turned black, my last thoughts were:
\u201cDoes she not care about me? No. That\u2019s not the question. Why am I so scared of her right now? How is this different?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n