Chapter 2: The days that blur
790 Words
Mira stopped noticing the days. They slid by like oil on glass—ungraspable and slick, smearing together into one long stretch of gray. She marked time only by the number of unread texts piling up in her phone or how long the dust had been gathering on her bookshelf. Even the calendar on her wall—once decorated with art she’d torn from magazines—had remained stuck on February, though it was well into March.
Each morning, she repeated the same process: sit up, stare blankly, force herself to move. The mirror over her dresser no longer held her gaze. She didn’t recognize the girl who looked back—dark circles under her eyes, lips pale, posture caved in as though she were trying to take up less space in the world.
On Thursday, her English teacher asked her to stay after class.
“Mira,” Ms. Lin said gently, folding her hands on the desk. “I noticed your last few assignments haven’t been turned in. Is everything okay?”
Mira nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just... been tired.”
Ms. Lin gave her a look—not accusing, not unkind, but knowing. “You’re one of my strongest writers. I miss your voice in the essays.”
Mira tried to smile but her face couldn’t quite remember how. “Thanks.”
“If you need to talk to someone,” Ms. Lin said, reaching into her drawer and sliding a small card across the desk, “we have a counselor. Or… I’m here.”
Mira stared at the card. Ms. Rivera – School Counseling Office.
She took it, more out of politeness than intent. “Thanks,” she said again, softer this time.
That night, she sat at her desk, the card under her fingers, untouched homework to the left, her journal to the right. She opened her notebook and scribbled:
They think I’m slipping. They don’t know I’ve already fallen.
She wanted to get better. She really did. But what no one told you about depression was how exhausting it was to even want things. Even hope was heavy.
When Leah texted her that evening—“Are we still friends?”—Mira stared at the words for five minutes, her thumb hovering over the screen. She didn’t know how to respond. Of course they were friends. Weren’t they? But how do you be a friend when your insides are broken glass?
She typed:
I’m sorry I haven’t been myself. It’s not you.
Then deleted it.
Then typed again:
I don’t know how to talk right now.
Then deleted that, too.
Eventually, she set the phone down and left it unanswered. Again.
The loneliness was strange. It wasn’t the kind that came from being alone—it was the kind that came from being surrounded by people who couldn’t see you. Who couldn’t tell that every smile you gave was stitched together with fear and fatigue.
That weekend, Mira’s parents decided it was time for a “family day.” They drove out to the lake, where the air was colder than expected and the sky bruised with thick clouds. Mira sat in the backseat, her forehead against the window, watching the landscape blur past in streaks of brown and gray.
“Maybe some fresh air will cheer you up,” her mom said.
“I’m fine,” Mira replied automatically.
They walked around the lake for an hour. Her parents pointed out birds and talked about upcoming holidays. Mira trailed behind, her boots crunching on gravel, eyes cast down. When they stopped for hot chocolate, she sat on a damp bench and pretended to sip. The warmth in her hands felt almost foreign. The taste never reached her.
At one point, her dad crouched beside her. “Mira… you’ve been quiet lately.”
She blinked at him. “I’m always quiet.”
He frowned, then said nothing.
Later that night, back in her room, Mira sat in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The stars were invisible behind the clouds, but she remembered their places, their patterns. She whispered their names to herself like old friends—Orion, Cassiopeia, Vega.
She whispered them like a prayer.
She opened her journal and wrote one line:
I’m still here, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Then, finally, she cried.
Not the silent, hidden kind of tears. But the full, shaking kind that come from deep within, like something uncoiling inside that had been wound too tight for too long.
It didn’t fix anything. But when the tears stopped, there was a strange kind of stillness. Not peace, but a beginning.
She stared at the ceiling again, and this time, she whispered:
“Maybe tomorrow..."
- Writer
