Internal Affairs

Buried Beneath Obligations

The air around me felt different now. Not lighter, not heavier—just real. As if I had finally stepped into something I had spent my whole life circling but never entering.

Beggy was still there, quiet but no longer withdrawing. She was watching me, waiting. She had spent so much time in the shadows of my mind, carrying wounds too deep for words. And now, she had been seen.

But she wasn’t the only one.

I could feel something else shifting beneath the surface. A presence, lingering just out of reach, like another part of me waiting for its turn.

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

"Is there something else here?" I asked softly, directing the words inward.

At first, silence. Then, a whisper of something—not quite words, but a feeling. Hesitation. Weariness. A presence that wasn’t ready to step forward but was watching, deciding.

I had spent years drowning in thoughts, running from myself in ways I hadn’t even recognized. But now, the rules had changed. I had opened a door, and there was no turning back.

"You don’t have to come out yet," I reassured. "I just want you to know I’m here. When you’re ready."

The shift was subtle but undeniable. An unspoken acknowledgment.

For the first time, I wasn’t just reacting to my emotions. I was meeting them.

I wake up, and she is already moving.

She doesn’t wait for permission. She doesn’t stop to check if I’m ready. The moment my eyes open, she’s there—hands busy, mind racing, urging me to do something, anything, before I even take a breath.

But I am not a priority.

I don’t brush my hair. I don’t drink water. I don’t pause.

If I need to study, I just grab a book and start, not bothering to prepare myself. If I need to clean, I start immediately, even before washing my face. It’s always about what needs to be done, not about me. I am an afterthought.

She moves with urgency, pushing me forward, whispering that there is no time for me. My room is a mess. My clothes are a mess. My eating habits are a mess. My hygiene is a mess. But she doesn’t care about that. She only cares about survival.

I watch her.

She is small, but relentless. Her hands tremble, but she never hesitates. She doesn’t speak to me directly, but I can hear her thoughts: If we stop, we will drown.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. I try to reach for her, but she moves too fast, slipping through my fingers like sand. She doesn’t trust me.

And why would she?

She has kept me functioning when everything else has fallen apart. She has pushed through the exhaustion, the chaos, the neglect. She doesn’t believe I can take care of myself—because I never have.

But I need to try.

I step forward, slowly, cautiously. She flinches, her shoulders tensing. I raise my hands to show I mean no harm.

“I see you.”

She stops. Not entirely, but enough to glance at me, just for a moment.

“I know why you do this,” I continue, my voice steady but soft. “I know you’re afraid that if we stop, everything will collapse.”

Her breath hitches. I take another step closer.

“But I want to help. I don’t want you to carry this alone anymore.”

She clenches her fists, her whole body taut with resistance. “I don’t know how to stop,” she whispers.

I nod, because I understand. Because I don’t know how to stop either. Because stopping means facing everything I’ve been running from. And yet—

I reach out, gently placing my hand over hers.

“We don’t have to stop all at once,” I say. “Just for a moment. Just to breathe.”

She looks at me, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. But she doesn’t pull away.

The weight doesn’t disappear. The urgency doesn’t vanish. But for the first time, she isn’t moving alone.

For the first time, neither am I.