A Safe Place

Some mornings I wake up and forget where I am. Not in the way people mean when they say they're still half-asleep — I mean I forget the point of waking up at all. The sunlight slips through the cracks in my curtains, soft and gold, and for a second I think it’s beautiful. Then it hits me — the weight, the ache that starts in my chest and spreads outward like ink in water — and suddenly, everything is heavy again. The sunlight, the air, my own skin. I move through the motions anyway. Roll out of bed. Stand under the shower until the water runs cold. Pull the same gray sweater over my head. Eat cereal that's gone stale from sitting in the open box too long. None of it feels real, not really. It’s like watching someone else's life through a thick pane of glass — and I’m on the wrong side. At school, I’m the girl people forget to notice. I sit at the back of classrooms. I turn in homework exactly on time. I nod at teachers when they call my name for attendance. I’m a ghost with a pulse. A name on a list. A chair that’s always filled but never seen. Once, a teacher asked me if I was okay. I smiled. Lied. It’s what you do when you realize no one really wants the truth — they just want the noise to stop. The truth would terrify them. The truth is: I don’t feel alive most days. I feel... exhausted — like my heart’s been carrying a weight it was never strong enough to lift, and now it’s caving in. The truth is: Sometimes, when I’m walking home, I wonder how easy it would be to just disappear between one breath and the next. The truth is: I don’t think anyone would even notice until the seat I always fill stayed empty for too long. My parents don't see it. They mean well, I think. They ask about grades, about chores, about what I want for dinner. They tell me to smile more. To get some fresh air. I nod, I agree, I go back to my room and bury myself in the blankets like a child hiding from monsters. Only the monster isn’t under the bed. It’s inside my chest, growing stronger every day. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a number of days a person can survive feeling like this before they just... don't anymore. I wonder if I’m close to it. Today feels no different. I walk the same streets. Pass the same cracked sidewalk, the same rusted-out cars. Listen to the same hollow conversations buzz around me like static. "How's it going?" "Good, you?" "Yeah, good." Everyone’s good. Everyone’s fine. Everyone’s lying. At home, I curl up under the covers, headphones tucked into my ears. Music loud enough to drown out the ache. I scroll past pictures of people laughing, living, dancing in places I’ve never been, with smiles I don’t know how to wear. My chest tightens. My throat burns. I squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see sparks behind my eyelids. I think about crying. I think about screaming. But I’m so tired. Tired in the kind of way sleep can’t fix. Instead, I do what I always do: Nothing. I lie there until the world goes quiet. Until the only thing left is the sound of my own heart beating against a chest that doesn’t want to carry it anymore. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe not. All I know is tonight, I’ll fall asleep in a bed that feels too big, under a sky that feels too far away, wondering if this is all life will ever be — just empty spaces I don’t know how to fill.