18 Years a Lie

Standing on the edge

The oppressive heat of the past few months had finally begun to relent. The scorching sun, a constant companion during the wedding festivities, now hung heavy in the sky, its rays softened by the promise of the approaching rainy season. The evenings, once stifling and humid, carried a faint breeze—a small but welcome reprieve from the unrelenting grip of summer.

Yet, no change in the weather could soothe the suffocating monotony of my life. My days passed like clockwork: chores, cooking, isolation. My family and I shared the same walls, but not the same world. Conversations were reduced to clipped phrases, instructions, or veiled accusations. Love was a language we’d forgotten how to speak. The silence in our home was thick and heavy, filling the void where connection should have been.

My only solace was the digital world. In the glowing screen of my phone, I found a space where I could breathe. My online friends became my sanctuary—people who saw me, who listened, who cared. Their words were a balm for the wounds no one in my family noticed. In that world, I laughed freely, dreamed boldly, and for a few fleeting moments, forgot the stifling reality I called home.

One afternoon, while I stood in the kitchen stirring a pot of stew, I joined a group video call with my online friends. Their voices filled the small, suffocating space, brightening the dullness of my routine. They asked about the meal I was cooking, and I shared the recipe with an enthusiasm I hadn’t felt in weeks. For those few minutes, I felt alive.

Then my mom walked in. She paused in the doorway, her eyes narrowing as they flicked to the phone propped up beside the cutting board. Without a word, she turned and left, but the weight of her disapproval lingered. I felt it settle on my shoulders, pressing down like an invisible chain. I tried to shake it off, telling myself I didn’t care. But deep down, a familiar fear gnawed at me.

A few weeks later, my worst fear came true. My mom confiscated my phone. She took it without warning, her actions swift and final, like a guillotine blade cutting through the thin thread that tethered me to the outside world. My sanctuary was gone.

I felt like a prisoner in my own home. The silence became unbearable, a deafening roar in my mind. My friends—my lifeline—were now unreachable, their voices replaced by an aching void. The phone, locked away in a drawer, felt like a tombstone for the joy and connection it had once brought me.

In the quiet, my thoughts turned darker. The unfinished suicide note I had written months ago resurfaced in my mind, its words etched into my memory like scars. I began to add to it, line by line, as if chronicling my descent into despair. Each entry felt like a scream trapped in a bottle, cast into an ocean of indifference.

The days dragged on, and the weight of my existence grew heavier. My mom’s anger became sharper, her words more cutting. Every interaction felt like a minefield, each step fraught with the potential for an explosion. I was no longer just surviving; I was shrinking, fading into a version of myself I no longer recognized.

One morning, as a sudden chill signaled the arrival of the rainy season, my mom forced me into the car. She said nothing as she drove, her face a mask of cold fury. The car stopped at the river—a place that had once been my refuge. But today, it was a battleground.

“How could you betray me like this?” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. Her accusations cut through the air like knives, sharp and unforgiving. She claimed to have read my messages, to have seen my confessions to my online friends.

“You’ve shamed this family,” she hissed, her eyes blazing. “You’re selfish, ungrateful. A disgrace.”

Her words hit me like blows, each one leaving an invisible bruise. She threatened to call social services, to lock me away, to make sure I would never see the light of day again. Her voice grew louder, more venomous, until it was all I could hear.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. She turned and walked back to the car, leaving me by the riverbank, trembling and numb. A part of me wanted to chase after her, to beg for her love, her forgiveness. But another part—the part that had been broken too many times—stood frozen.

As the sound of her car faded, I looked at the river. Its dark waters churned below, cold and uninviting. The thought crossed my mind: It would be so easy to jump. To let go. To end this pain.

But then, amidst the chaos in my mind, a small voice broke through. It wasn’t loud or commanding, but it was steady. It told me to walk away. To keep going. To survive.

I turned my back on the river and started walking.

Hours passed in a blur. The city’s outskirts emerged through the haze of my exhaustion, its streets bustling with life that felt foreign to me. My legs ached, my feet were blistered, but I kept moving.

And then I saw her—a familiar face in the crowd. My Indian classmate suki . She looked at me with concern, her expression softening as she took in my disheveled state. Without hesitation, she brought me to her home.

She didn’t ask for an explanation right away. Instead, she handed me water and food, giving me time to breathe. When I finally told her everything, her eyes filled with tears. She offered her phone so I could call someone I trusted—a family friend who had always been kind to me.

By late evening, my classmate’s parents had fed me and made me comfortable. When my family friend arrived, they welcomed her with warmth, thanking her for coming. She hugged me tightly and took me to their home, their presence a balm for my raw nerves.

That night, for the first time in months, I felt safe.

But safety came with a price. The next day around 4pm, I was shocked to find my face staring back at me from the front page of the local newspaper. The headline screamed: “Teenager Missing.” The article painted me as a troubled runaway, a child lost to her own selfishness.

Search parties scoured the riverbanks, their grim faces reflecting the lies my mom had spread. Helicopters hovered overhead, their rotors a constant reminder of the chaos I had left behind. My mom had twisted the narrative, casting herself as the victim and me as the villain.

But I knew the truth. And for the first time, I was ready to fight for it, but then who care enough to listen to a runaway teenager right? I just wish I could change the whole story while screaming out the truth.

The river, once a symbol of escape, had become something new. It was no longer a place of despair, but a reminder of my resilience. I had stood on its edge and chosen life. I had walked away.

The road ahead was uncertain, paved with challenges I couldn’t yet foresee. But I would face them. I would reclaim my story, my voice, my future.

I would rise above all these,I will overcome it, I will succeed, I will make it, and with this words in my mind I decided to hold my life in my hands, if only I knew what was coming I wouldn’t had gone back, but I knew it had to be done.