Lost in the dark

Leaving quietly

After that day at my parents’ house, everything became heavier.

I tried to return to school as if nothing had changed. I told myself I could endure it—that I could sit through lectures, take notes, pretend my life wasn’t collapsing. But my body refused to cooperate with my lies.

Morning sickness followed me into the afternoons. My back ached constantly. Some days, the smell of chalk or perfume in the lecture hall made my head spin. I sat at the back of the class, one hand gripping my pen, the other pressed against my stomach, fighting waves of nausea and fear.

My mind wasn’t there anymore.

While lecturers spoke, my thoughts wandered to unanswered questions:

Where would I sleep next month?

How would I pay rent?

What would happen when my stomach started to show?

I began missing classes. First one. Then two. Then weeks.

Eventually, I stopped going altogether.

Quitting school felt like another failure—another door slamming shut. I didn’t announce it. I didn’t tell anyone. I simply stopped showing up, letting silence do the work for me. The dreams I once had folded quietly, placed on a shelf I didn’t know when—or if—I would return to.

With nowhere else to go, I searched for a place I could afford.

I found a small apartment at the outskirts of town, far from the noise, far from people who might recognize me. It was old, cramped, and lonely. The walls were bare, the floor cold. Still, it gave me something I hadn’t had in a long time.

Privacy.

Safety.

A place to cry without being watched.

That was where I stayed during my pregnancy.

Days passed slowly there. I learned the rhythm of solitude—waking up alone, cooking alone, attending antenatal appointments alone. I spoke to my unborn child when the silence became unbearable, whispering hopes I wasn’t sure I could fulfill.

Some nights, fear wrapped itself tightly around my chest. Other nights, a quiet determination took its place.

I had lost my family.

I had lost my education.

I had lost the future I once imagined.

But I hadn’t lost myself.

Not completely.

And in that small apartment at the edge of town, carrying a life inside me, I began to understand that survival didn’t always look like victory. Sometimes, it simply looked like staying.