Anxious
910 Words
Lena Brooks hated mornings.
Not because of school, or the long bus ride, or even the way Westbridge High seemed too bright before eight a.m., but because mornings reminded her of everything she didn’t have.
The apartment was quiet when she woke up, the kind of quiet that pressed against her ears. The radiator clicked weakly in the corner, and the ceiling above her bed carried a thin c***k that looked like a lightning bolt frozen in time. Her room was small, bed, desk, a secondhand bookshelf that leaned slightly to the left. She liked it that way. Small rooms were easier to manage.
Her phone lay face-down on the desk.
She knew better than to check it.
The night before played on repeat in her head anyway. The typing bubble. The words she never meant to send. The way her chest had tightened the moment she realized where the message had gone.
Wrong chat.
She had typed the apology with shaking hands, heart pounding so loudly she thought it might wake the neighbors. For a moment, she’d hoped that would be the end of it. That everyone would forget. That the message would sink into the endless scroll of jokes and homework questions.
It didn’t.
Lena sat up and pulled her sweater tighter around herself. It was always cold in the apartment, even in early fall. The heat worked when it wanted to. So did the lights.
She slipped out of bed and crossed the room, careful not to step on the loose floorboard near the door. Her sketchbook lay open on the desk, pencil resting in the crease. Half-finished drawings stared back at her, eyes without faces, windows without rooms. She flipped it shut.
Down the hall, her mom’s bedroom door was closed.
Lena paused, listening.
No coughing. No movement.
Relief loosened something in her chest.
Her mom worked nights when she could get them. Cleaning offices. Sorting boxes. Anything that paid quickly and didn’t ask too many questions. She had been a single mom ever since Lena was five. When she came home, she slept like she was trying to disappear into the mattress.
Lena learned early not to make noise.
She poured herself cereal with the last of the milk, the sound of it splashing too loud in the quiet kitchen. The calendar on the fridge was covered in handwritten notes, rent circled in red, utilities underlined twice. Lena avoided looking at it.
Her phone vibrated.
She froze.
Slowly, she turned it over.
Notifications stacked the screen.
Messages.
Private messages.
Mentions.
Her stomach dropped.
They were worried.
That realization hit harder than the message itself.
Lena sank into the kitchen chair, phone heavy in her hands. She scrolled through previews without opening anything, Jordan asking if she was okay, Maya telling her she wasn’t alone, Ethan saying they were there if she needed anything.
Her throat tightened.
This wasn’t what she’d meant.
The truth was colder and smaller than the panic now buzzing through her phone.
She hadn’t been planning anything dramatic. She hadn’t been trying to scare anyone. The words had slipped out because she was tired, tired of moving schools, tired of always being new, tired of teachers mispronouncing her name and classmates looking past her like she was part of the furniture.
At her old school, she’d learned what it felt like to be invisible.
At home, she’d learned how to be quiet.
Sometimes the feeling built up until it pressed against her ribs, sharp and breathless. Writing helped. Drawing helped. Sending the message she had meant to send it to herself. A note app. A draft. Somewhere private.
Instead, it had gone to everyone.
Lena covered her face with her hands.
Why do they care now? a small, bitter voice whispered.
The phone buzzed again.
This time, she opened one.
Avery Collins: can you tell them to stop talking about that weird message you sent!
Lena stared at the message, chest aching.
She typed back.
Lena: can you tell them to stop talking about me
Then, after a pause:
Lena: please
She set the phone down like it might burn her.
At school, she didn’t go in.
She stayed on the bus until it reached the end of the route, then walked to the small public library instead. It smelled like old paper and dust and quiet understanding. She sat by the window and watched students pass outside, backpacks slung over shoulders, laughter rising and falling.
For the first time, Lena wondered what it felt like to be noticed for the right reasons.
Her phone buzzed again.
She didn’t open it.
Anxiety crept in anyway, the kind that tightens your lungs and makes every thought heavier. She hadn’t meant to pull people into her life like this. She hadn’t meant to become a question everyone was asking.
By afternoon, the messages slowed.
That scared her more.
She finally opened the group chat.
Arguments. Defensiveness. Fear wrapped in humor.
And then Avery’s message:
we need to slow down
Lena exhaled for the first time all day.
Someone had noticed, not the message, but the mess it had made.
She didn’t know how to fix things. She didn’t know how to explain years of quiet in a single reply.
But for the first time since transferring to Westbridge, Lena didn’t feel completely alone.
She picked up her pencil and opened her sketchbook.
This time, she drew a door.
Not open.
Not closed.
Just waiting.
- Writer
