"When Tia Breaks"

I don’t know how to begin… it feels like years of my life have piled up inside my chest like heavy dust—suffocating, choking the air from my throat, burying my voice, burying even my dreams. And what dream? Mine isn’t something big. Not fame. Not wealth. Not a perfect marriage or a university degree. No… my dream is simpler than all that. I just want to step outside. Alone. To walk on a quiet street, without fear… without voices slicing through the silence asking “Where are you going?” “Who gave you permission?” I want to walk without being a prisoner in my own name. My mother’s voice is the only warmth left in this cold place I call home. Despite the illness that eats away at her—month after month, pain after pain—her voice still sounds like hope. Her touch is still a kind of medicine no hospital could offer. She suffers monthly. Her treatment is costly. Every injection, every visit to the hospital takes from her, from us, from life itself. I sit by her side and watch her body tremble from pain while my own heart breaks into pieces, powerless to help. Being a girl here is enough to be sentenced. I was born with chains instead of choices. Even school was taken from me. I’d stand at the school gate, watch girls walk in with their bright backpacks and laughing eyes… and I’d turn back. Back to silence. Back to the same staircase. Back to a bed where I bury my face and lie to myself that this is how things are meant to be. My days look like the walls: silent, still, cold. But every day, the room gets smaller, my voice gets lower, my chances get dimmer. And yet, my heart grows louder. It holds everything— My mother’s laughter. The smell of her hair when she hugs me. The way we’d sit and imagine a better life: “If we had money, what’s the first thing you’d buy?” She once told me, “I’d buy you a white dress with flowers, something that shines… because you deserve to shine.” And she smiled through her pain. And I smiled with her—through my grief. I have no friends, just a window. I talk to the stars at night, confess everything. I tell them how I’m tired, how I’m scared, how I still dream. I once saw a girl reading on a bench, her face peaceful, no fear in her eyes. She didn’t need permission to be herself. And I thought… this is life. This is what they robbed from me. I once dreamed of owning a journal—just blank pages, no title—where I could pour myself out. But even that was forbidden. Even writing was a sin. Even expression had to be approved. But it’s the only thing that keeps me alive. My mother… She always knew. Even when I didn’t speak, she could hear me drowning. She once told me, “Maybe your luck is slow, but it will come. Don’t let yourself die inside.” And I held on to her words like scripture—etched them on my ribs like armor. I dreamed once, just a simple dream— That I’d one day step outside and feel the wind on my face. Not fearfully… but with peace. Carrying a book in my hand. Sitting on a quiet bench. Writing. Just writing. Laughing. Crying. Breathing. I imagined passing a flower shop. Buying a single rose. Not for someone else. Not as a gift. Just for me. My own name on the receipt. A tiny freedom. Pressed between the pages of my book as proof that I once chose something for myself. I remember once seeing a girl laugh—out loud. People stared. But she didn’t care. And I remember my blood trembling—not from jealousy—but grief. Why couldn’t I laugh like that? Why was my joy always on trial? Even emotions had to be approved. Once I liked a love song and they said, “Shame on you. How dare you feel something?” As if emotions were crimes. But my love was cleaner than their eyes. My love was pure. Love isn’t a mistake. What’s wrong is denying us the right to feel. That night, my mother hugged me and cried with me. She said, “I never lived a love story. But you… don’t let them kill the love inside you. You were born to love. Don’t let them bury that.” I’ve held on to those words like they’re holy. And now… I write. Because writing is my rebellion. Because my voice has to live—even if it’s behind a screen, between silent letters, even if no one reads it. I write. I write about pain. About my mother. About the years stolen from me. But what’s left inside me… still lives. Still breathes. Still burns. And with every word I write, I rebuild myself— Brick by brick, letter by letter. Out of fire. But not the fire that destroys. The fire that keeps the soul alive.