Hollowed Cries
761 Words
It's strange how a body can move when a soul doesn't want to.
I woke up this morning with that same ache in my bones — not from pain, but from existence.
The weight of breathing.
The stretch of time.
The pressure of pretending I still want any of it.
I lie there staring at the ceiling. There's a tiny c***k near the corner. I've counted the little breaks in the paint so many times I've named them — a jagged line I call "fault," another that looks like a tree branch I call "fracture."
I don't know why I do that.
Maybe because they're broken, too.
Maybe because they don't try to hide it.
My room smells faintly of stale laundry and something I can't name anymore. Not bad. Not good. Just... hollow.
Like it's been empty for too long.
I shower because I'm supposed to.
I brush my teeth and gag halfway through, like my body wants to reject care.
I dress in my usual oversized hoodie and jeans, sleeves long enough to cover everything I don't want the world to see.
Then I put on my face — the one with the tight-lipped smile and eyes just wide enough to look alert.
I go to school.
The hallway hums with life I can't feel.
Lockers slamming.
Sneakers squeaking.
Laughter too loud, like static through my skin.
I walk head-down, arms tucked into my chest.
I pass posters for prom, for college applications, for blood drives.
Funny. I could fill that bag ten times over and still feel this empty.
People say hi in passing —
"Hey Lena!"
"You coming to the review session?"
"Cute hoodie!"
I nod. Smile. Lie.
They're not talking to me.
Not really.
They're talking to the version I keep stitched together with duct tape and sarcasm.
No one wants the real version.
First period is a blur.
I sit by the window.
Outside, the trees are bare. Their branches stretch like brittle fingers against a sky that looks like wet paper.
I wonder what it would feel like to walk into the cold and never come back.
Midway through the lecture, someone passes me a note.
It says:
"You look tired. Everything okay?"
I write back:
"Just didn't sleep. Thanks though."
Lie #453.
They smile at me like I'm brave.
Like I'm strong for showing up.
They don't know I didn't show up at all.
I skipped lunch again.
Sat in the back corner of the library with my hood up, pretending to read.
That's when he walked in.
Tall. Pale. Hoodie torn at the sleeves.
Eyes like mine — too quiet, too tired, too old.
He sat one table over. Didn't look at me.
Pulled out a beat-up sketchbook and a pencil.
I couldn't help staring.
He was drawing hands — all kinds. Broken, clenched, reaching.
I didn't mean to speak.
But I did.
"Why hands?"
He looked up, startled, like no one had asked him a real question in months.
He shrugged.
Then, softly:
"They're honest. You can lie with your face. Not with your hands."
That hit me like a whisper turned into thunder.
He didn't ask why I was sitting alone.
I didn't ask why he looked like he hadn't slept in days.
But we understood each other in that silence.
Finally, he spoke again.
"What's your thing?"
I blinked.
"My thing?"
"Yeah. The thing you do so people don't notice you're breaking."
I looked down at my sleeves.
"I'm good at saying I'm tired."
He smirked, but it wasn't happy.
"Classic. Mine's being funny. If I'm funny, they think I'm fine."
We sat in that quiet for a long time.
Two ghosts pretending to be students.
Two strangers carrying the same invisible weight.
Before the bell rang, he ripped a page from his sketchbook.
It was a hand — palm open, scarred, holding a tiny flame.
He slid it toward me.
"In case yours goes out."
I wanted to say something. Anything.
But my throat closed up.
He left before I could ask his name.
I folded the drawing carefully and slipped it into my notebook, between my fake notes and real poems.
The rest of the day dragged by like wet cement.
By the time I got home, I was too tired to take off my shoes.
I lay on the floor of my bedroom, staring at the ceiling c***k again.
It looks different now — like it's growing. Like it's getting ready to split wide open and swallow me whole.
And maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
- Writer
