"Sometimes the question isn't how to stay alive—
but why."
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Aira stared at her reflection in the dorm-room mirror, tracing the pale lines under her eyes like a map she couldn't read. She felt hollow—as if every ounce of color had been drained from her.
Today, the counselor had asked her qeustion: "What makes you feel alive?" A simple question, but it landed like a stone in her chest.
She hadn't known how to answer.
It was Sunday afternoon. The kind of slow, gray day when time seems to stretch and yawn. Aira scrolled through social media, seeing pictures of her friends from the weekend—Hana and Izzati at a concert, laughing with their arms around each other; Azim posting a story about a spontaneous road trip; even Mira had shared a throwback photo with the caption, "Miss this old life," tagging mutual friends.
None of them had actually reached out to her.
She closed her eyes.
Why am I still here?
That question had haunted her for weeks. It hovered in the spaces between her breaths, settled in the pit of her stomach. It echoed in her mind whenever she thought of disappearing—of finally becoming invisible enough that even the echoes of her footsteps wouldn't be remembered.
A knock on her door startled her out of the haze. It was Ray.
He swayed slightly, carrying two cups of hot chocolate from the campus café. He offered one to her without a word.
Aira took it with shaky fingers. Steam curled between them.
"I thought you might like something warm," Ray said, settling onto her bed. He kept his hoodie on, like always—an armor against the world.
She didn't speak. Just sipped the chocolate.
"Did you… talk to the counselor today?" he asked softly.
Aira swallowed. "Yeah."
"Do you feel… different?"
She considered that. "I'm not sure."
Ray nodded, as if that made sense. "It takes time."
She took a deep breath. "Ray.. do-do you ever wonder why you're—even—here?"
He paused, his gaze drifting out the window. After a moment, he said, "All the time."
Aira let out a short laugh—more a sob disguised as laughter. "Good answer."
He looked at her, concern in his eyes. "You know… you—you don't have to figure it out alone."
That night, Aira opened her journal. The page was fronted by an empty line begging for words. She pressed the pen to paper and wrote:
"If I disappear tomorrow, who would notice?
If I stopped breathing tonight, would anyone even care I've gone?
This is the question that claws at my chest every single day."
She closed the journal and hugged it to her chest. It was the only place she could be honest.
Flashback: Mira's Final Whisper
Summer before university, Aira had walked home with Mira after frosh week. Their laughter echoed up the street lamps. Mira had been glowing—effortlessly popular, brilliant at art, the kind of person people wanted to orbit. Aira had felt lucky to be her friend.
They stopped at the corner of Maple Street. Mira turned to her. Her smile had been gentle, but her eyes were cold.
"I love you, Aira," Mira had said. "But sometimes—I…need space."
Aira remembers nodding, though her throat had felt tight. She'd thought it was a temporary thing, that maybe Mira was stressed. She'd tried texting her later that night—but Mira never replied.
Days turned into weeks.
Finally, Aira saw Mira in the student union, chatting with new friends. Mira looked right through her, as if Aira were a ghost.
Aira had approached her. "Mira?"
Mira had turned—her smile polite but distant. "Hey," she'd said, "I'm kind of busy."
Aira's chest hurt. "I was just—"
Mira shook her head. "I can't do this right now."
And then she walked away.
Aira had stood there as Mira disappeared into the crowd. That night, her journal entry read:
"What hurts more: being betrayed by a friend, or realizing you were never really theirs to begin with?"
Aira closed her eyes and let the memory wash over her.
The pain still burned.
She wondered if that was when she started having thoughts of not existing—that if someone as vibrant as Mira could let her go so easily, maybe no one really needed her.
The next morning, Aira dragged herself to campus, determined to attend her classes. She even managed to sit with her friends in the cafeteria—Hana rolled her eyes when Aira slid into the seat as if she'd expected it; Izzati barely looked up while scrolling through her phone; Azim was engrossed in his sandwich.
Aira forced herself to smile once, then refilled her water bottle. No one asked if she was okay. She felt a sting—so familiar, she felt like she should be used to it by now.
In literature class that afternoon, as Professor Nadira discussed themes of isolation in modern fiction, Aira's eyes drifted to the window. The campus was alive with color—green trees swaying, students walking their dogs, someone playing guitar by the fountain.
Imagining herself there felt impossible—as if invisible walls kept her locked inside her head.
She felt a presence sit beside her. It was Ray, unzipping his bag to pull out a small hardcover notebook. He wrote diligently while the professor spoke.
After class, on the stairs, Aira lingered. Ray fell into step.
"Hey," he said without fanfare. "I got us free tickets to that poetry night at The Nook—tomorrow at 7." He handed her two small slips of paper.
She looked at them. "Poetry?"
He nodded. "I thought…maybe you could come. We can sit in the corner. No pressure."
Aira knew he wouldn't push her to talk. She nodded. "Okay."
That evening, Aira's thoughts were restless. Before sleeping, she wrote in her journal:
"Poetry doesn't need to be loud to matter.
A single line, spoken in a quiet voice, can:
—remind you that someone else walks inside your head, too;
—make you feel less alone.
Maybe tomorrow, I'll find a line that makes me feel…alive."
Poetry Night: A Flicker of Light
The Nook was a small, cozy café with mismatched chairs, dim string lights, and a faint smell of tea and old books. Ray guided Aira to a corner table, dimly lit by a single lamp. She perched on the edge of the seat, heart pounding—partly from anxiety, partly because she hadn't felt this close to doing something new in a long time.
The first poet was a lanky sophomore who read about heartbreak in a monotone that made Aira's chest constrict. She felt tears prick at her eyes—familiar, aching. The poet closed with:
"I once asked why love burns when it departs. Turns out, some flames leave ashes that stain the soul."
Aira recognized the ache in those words. She glanced at Ray; he gave her a small, understanding nod.
The next performer was a visiting poet—gentler, older. She read from a slim volume:
"I carry loneliness like a coat I try to shed. But some days, it fits too well.
Some days, I wonder if I'll ever learn to take it off."
The line settled in Aira's chest like a soft pillow. She exhaled without realizing she'd held her breath.
Ray reached over and gently squeezed her hand—an anchor in the swell of raw emotion.
When the lights flickered as the last poet finished, there was polite applause. Aira wiped her eyes.
"Thank you for coming," Ray said quietly, sliding his coat around her shoulders when she shivered.
Aira forced a small smile that felt real for once. "Thank you…for bringing me here."
He shrugged. "Poems saved me once."
Aira's heart ached at that confession. "My journal saved me," she admitted.
He nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Writing is magic. Sometimes, you speak the truths your voice can't say out loud."
Aira stared at her hands. She felt…lighter than she had in days.
Back in her dorm, she opened her journal and wrote:
"Tonight, I heard poetry about loneliness.
I heard it in voices louder than mine,
and it reminded me I'm not the only one
who questions why I'am still here.
Maybe the answer isn't about finding why I'm alive—
but recognizing that others feel the same flames inside them.
And maybe, in that shared fire, I find reason enough to keep breathing."
Aira closed the journal. Her vision blurred with tears—tears that weren't just pain, but something else, too: hope. A quiet flicker, like the first star before dawn.
She folded into her pillow and, for the first time in a long while, didn't dread the morning light.