A Safe Place

Quiet Ruin

Most people don't notice when you're dying inside —

Not if you laugh at their jokes.

Not if you show up to school, to work, to dinner.

Not if you say "I'm just tired" instead of "I'm not sure I want to wake up tomorrow."

I've gotten good at it.

At pretending.

At becoming a version of myself that doesn't scare people away.

I smile at the right times.

I make eye contact.

I even brush my hair now, so I look "better."

Mom doesn't ask questions if I look better.

No one does.

No one sees that I'm slipping again —

Not falling.

Slipping.

Quietly.

Slowly.

Like drowning in air.

Every room feels colder lately.

Every sound, too loud.

Even my own breath feels like an insult —

Like my lungs are mocking me for still trying.

In class, I sit in the back.

I doodle meaningless shapes on my paper.

I nod when the teacher looks at me.

I laugh when someone makes a joke I didn't hear.

And every time someone says "You've been so quiet lately," I say "Just tired."

It always works.

It's amazing what people will believe if you give them a reason not to look closer.

No one knows that I barely sleep anymore.

That my dreams are filled with empty hallways and locked doors and no one ever coming when I scream.

No one knows that I wake up with tear stains I never remember making.

That I eat just enough not to raise suspicion, then hide in the bathroom, pressing my palms against the sink to stop the shaking.

I'm disappearing in slow motion.

And no one sees it.

But I do.

I see the way my clothes hang looser.

I see the bags under my eyes that even makeup can't hide anymore.

I see the blood under the bandages, the trembling in my fingers, the silence between my words.

And sometimes I wonder —

if I stopped showing up,

if I stopped trying,

would anyone really notice?

Would anyone ask why I stopped smiling?

Or would they just say "She was quiet. Kept to herself. Always polite."

Would they say "I didn't know she was hurting."

Or worse: "She never seemed like the type."

That's the cruel joke, isn't it?

Everyone talks about the signs.

But no one really looks for them.

Not unless you're already gone.

Sometimes I wish I could just scream in the middle of class.

Just stand up and scream at the top of my lungs until someone sees me —

really sees me.

But I don't.

Instead, I write poems in the margins of my notebooks.

Lines like:

"I'm not sad, I'm rotting."

"This smile is made of splinters."

"If I disappeared, would you feel the cold where I used to stand?"

They look like art.

They look like creativity.

But really, they're suicide notes I'm not brave enough to sign yet.

After school, I walk home slower than usual.

Not because I'm tired.

But because every step feels like a countdown.

Like I'm walking toward something final.

The blade is still in the drawer.

It's become a comfort.

Not because I want to die —

But because it's the only thing that still feels real.

Pain is the only thing that listens.

That doesn't ask me to smile.

That doesn't flinch when I bleed.

I sit in my room, door locked, headphones in, music loud.

The kind of songs that echo the ache inside my chest.

Not sad songs —

Hollow songs.

The kind that feel like winter with no end.

And I stare at the ceiling, imagining the world without me.

Not in a dramatic way.

In a peaceful way.

In a finally, the noise would stop way.

I imagine not having to pretend anymore.

Not having to carry this weight, this mask, this quiet ruin.

I imagine silence —

Real silence.

Not the kind that hurts.

I don't cry.

Not anymore.

Even my tears are tired.