__________________________________
⚠️ Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains internal monologue involving self-blame, depression, and feelings of worthlessness. Please read with care.
__________________________________
Fifteen.
Venessa was fifteen now.
Three years had passed since the day her world cracked apart, but the pain hadn't faded—it had simply grown quieter, heavier, and more deeply rooted in her every breath.
She still lived in the same house. Still walked the same streets. Still wore the same haunted expression in the mirror. But she wasn't the same girl anymore.
Venessa had learned how to disappear without ever leaving.
She did what was expected of her. Ate when food was placed in front of her. Attended school. Scored high on every exam. Responded with a polite nod when spoken to.
No one could say she was disobedient. No one could say she was difficult.
But she had stopped being alive a long time ago.
Even in a crowded room, she felt invisible. Even under the sun, everything looked grey.
People whispered about her behind her back—some with pity, others with discomfort. But one comment struck deeper than the rest.
> "She looks like she's already dead."
The words weren't meant for her to hear, but she did.
And she agreed.
There was nothing left in her but survival. A quiet, empty survival she hadn't chosen, only accepted. If there was anything she wanted anymore, it was peace. And to see her sister again.
That night, when the house finally fell silent, Venessa sat at her old wooden desk—the same desk where her sister once scribbled drawings and sang softly beside her. The memories still clung to the edges like dust.
The lamp above her flickered gently as she opened her notebook. For the first time in years, she wasn't writing formulas, homework, or journal entries for school.
She was writing her goodbye.
> To the world I'm leaving behind...
Her pen trembled, but the words came. Slowly, painfully. She poured out everything she'd buried for years: the guilt, the ache, the blame, the silence. She wrote about the girl she used to be, and the sister who'd died protecting the last flicker of light in her life.
> I tried. I really did. I waited for things to change. I tried to be enough for everyone. But in the end, I think… I wasn't even enough to be missed.
Tears blurred her vision, but she didn't stop.
> I'm tired of pretending I'm okay. Of hearing nothing but silence. Of waking up every day wondering what the point of it all is. I don't want to run anymore. I just want to rest. And maybe, just maybe… see her again.
She wrote until the last line.
Then she folded the page, hand trembling, and reached to place it inside her desk drawer.
But the moment she opened it, she paused.
There was something already there.
Another letter—folded, creased, and slightly yellowed at the edges, like it had been waiting.
Confused, Venessa slowly picked it up. The paper felt strangely familiar in her hands.
She unfolded it.
Her breath hitched.
The handwriting… it was hers.
But she had never written this.
> Venessa,
I know you're hurting. I know you're tired. But this is not the end. Please… don't give up. There's more to your story than this pain. One day, you'll see why you had to survive this.
You don't have to carry it all alone anymore. Not forever. Just… hold on a little longer.
-From Me. The You Who Lived.
She stared at the letter, heart pounding, hands shaking.
It wasn't possible.
And yet… here it was.
A letter from herself.
From a version of her that hadn't given up.
__________
End of chapter 5