Episode:12
895 Words
EPISODE 12
When the Noise Leaves
Joanne did not sleep.
She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling while the room breathed around her, slow and mocking. Every sound felt exaggerated. Someone laughed two rooms away. Water ran in a distant bathroom. A door slammed. Life continued with disgusting enthusiasm.
Her stomach growled.
She laughed quietly.
“So this is it,” she whispered. “This is the reward for standing up for myself.”
Hunger. Silence. A room that no longer felt safe.
She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, but her mind refused darkness. It lit itself up instead, cruel and imaginative.
Fantasy returned, uglier now.
She imagined the apples on the floor in the hallway rotting instantly, blackening, leaking bitterness. She imagined people stepping over them without looking. She imagined herself shrinking until she was small enough to be swept aside too.
Her phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
She didn’t check it.
Peace had betrayed her once today. She wasn’t letting curiosity do it again.
The next morning arrived like an insult.
Sunlight spilled into her room, bright and indifferent. Joanne sat up slowly, head pounding, body heavy. For a moment she forgot everything. Then hunger reminded her. Then memory followed.
She went to class anyway.
That was the cruelest part. Life demanded performance.
She walked across campus feeling like an exposed nerve. Conversations stopped when she passed. Not all of them. Just enough. Laughter lowered. Eyes lingered. Whispers slipped through the air like tiny knives.
Comedy tried to save her again.
She imagined captions floating above people’s heads.
Witness.
Judge.
Spectator.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
In class, the lecturer talked about conflict theory.
Joanne laughed out loud.
Everyone turned.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Irony.”
The lecturer frowned but continued. Mira glanced at her with concern, sliding a note across the desk.
You okay?
Joanne stared at the paper.
She wanted to write a joke. Something clever. Something light.
Instead she wrote:
I think I broke something.
Mira didn’t write back.
That silence hurt more than she expected.
By afternoon, the fantasy grew teeth.
The campus felt warped, like it had tilted just enough to throw her off balance. People’s faces blurred slightly when they spoke. Voices echoed half a second too late. Time dragged, then jumped.
She skipped lunch.
Hunger became a dull roar, then a sharp edge.
She wandered without direction, ending up at the old part of campus where no one went unless they were lost or avoiding something.
Perfect.
She sat on a bench beneath a tree that looked like it had survived several wars. Its branches twisted violently, like frozen screams.
“Same,” she murmured.
That was when the broken bond returned.
Not physically.
Worse.
Her phone vibrated again.
A message this time.
She stared at the screen for a long time before opening it.
You didn’t have to embarrass me like that.
Joanne laughed.
A deep, ugly laugh that startled a bird out of the tree.
“Embarrass you,” she said aloud. “Amazing.”
Her fingers hovered over the screen. Comedy suggested sarcasm. Drama suggested confrontation. Fantasy suggested throwing the phone into another dimension.
She typed nothing.
Another message came.
You’ve changed.
That one landed.
Because it was true.
And because it hurt anyway.
Joanne finally typed back.
Yes.
Nothing else.
No explanation. No apology. No defense.
Just yes.
The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then silence.
The bond didn’t explode.
It evaporated.
That was worse.
Evening fell too quickly.
Joanne returned to her room, exhausted in a way sleep could not fix. She sat on her bed and stared at the empty corner where her grocery bag should have been.
Fresh food had been such a small thing.
That realization broke her.
She curled in on herself, shoulders shaking as laughter and tears tangled together, neither winning. The comedy had run out of cleverness. The fantasy dimmed. The drama settled into something heavy and permanent.
She whispered into the quiet.
“I just wanted one normal day.”
The room did not answer.
Later that night, Mira finally knocked.
Joanne opened the door slowly.
Mira took one look at her and stopped smiling.
“Oh,” she said softly.
That one word hurt more than shouting ever could.
They sat on the bed in silence. Mira pulled out a small container and placed it between them.
Food.
Not fancy. Not perfect. Warm.
Joanne stared at it like it was a miracle and an accusation.
“I didn’t know how to help,” Mira said. “So I fed you.”
Joanne laughed weakly. “That tracks.”
She ate slowly, carefully, like the food might disappear if she moved too fast.
Fantasy faded.
Reality stayed.
When Mira left, Joanne lay back and stared at the ceiling again.
But this time, something was different.
The illusion of peace was gone.
In its place was clarity.
She understood now that growing up did not mean becoming untouched. It meant choosing what breaks you and what no longer gets permission.
She had lost something today.
Safety.
Comfort.
An old version of herself.
But she had also learned something brutal and true.
Peace that requires silence is not peace.
As sleep finally crept in, one last thought settled into her chest, heavy and irreversible.
Some bonds do not heal.
- Writer
