A Safe Place

After

You'd think a call like that would've saved me.

You'd think that hearing his voice again, after so long, would've filled in all the cracks and stitched me up from the inside out.

And maybe it did, for a little while.

The night after Eli called, I fell asleep holding my phone like it was a lifeline.

And for the first time in months, my pillow wasn't soaked in tears.

For the first time in forever, I dreamed of something other than falling.

But now it's the morning after.

And everything is heavy again.

The guilt comes quietly — like a slow tide that seeps in before you notice you're drowning in it.

At first, it was just a whisper:

He called because he knew. Because he could feel it.

Because you almost made a choice that would've broken him.

Because you were going to leave, and he would've never forgiven himself.

Then it grows louder:

You're selfish.

You almost left him alone in a world that already takes too much.

You're still thinking about it — after everything he said.

And it keeps going, mercilessly:

You're a burden.

You're poison.

He's better off without you anyway — he just doesn't know it yet.

I try to shake it off.

I try to hold on to the warmth of his voice, the way he said "I love you" like it still meant something.

But the warmth doesn't last.

It never does.

I can't even cry.

I just sit on the edge of my bed, blank, hollow, with guilt pushing its fists against my ribs from the inside.

It hurts.

Not like a wound.

More like rot.

Like something inside me is slowly turning black and I'm too tired to stop it.

I look down at my arms.

They're clean.

For now.

But the drawer is still there.

The blade, still wrapped in a sock, tucked under old school papers I'll never read again.

I stare at it for too long.

I tell myself: I'll just look at it. I won't use it.

I tell myself: It's just a reminder of how far I've come.

But I'm lying.

Even I know that.

Because the guilt is too loud.

It's screaming now.

And the only way I've ever known how to shut it up is pain.

Quiet pain.

Secret pain.

The kind that leaves no bruises, only scars you cover up with long sleeves and half-hearted smiles.

I walk to the drawer like I'm sleepwalking.

Pull it open with fingers that shake just enough to remind me this is real.

I sit on the cold tile of the bathroom again — same place, same silence.

I roll up the fabric.

Position the blade.

This time, I don't hesitate.

It stings — deeper than before.

On purpose.

I want to feel it this time.

I need to feel it.

Like punishment.

Like atonement.

The blood wells up fast.

There's something soothing about watching it.

Not because I like it.

Not because it's beautiful.

But because it proves I'm still here.

Still real.

Still paying for what I almost did.

Still paying for not being strong enough.

I press toilet paper to it, the bright red soaking through.

I don't cry.

I don't panic.

I just sit there, watching the blood soak the tissue like it's a sin I can never scrub out.

I think about Eli.

About what he would say if he saw this.

If he knew.

And it hits me like a punch to the chest:

He can never know.

Because that would break him.

That would undo every soft word he gave me.

Every ounce of faith he put in me.

And if he breaks... then what's the point of any of this?

So I clean up.

Flush the tissue.

Disinfect the blade.

Tuck it back into the drawer like it's a secret lover.

I put on a sweatshirt.

I cover the wound.

I smile at my reflection, lips tight and bloodless, eyes vacant.

No one will know.

They never do.

And that's the curse, isn't it?

You survive, but no one sees the bleeding.