Amina always woke up before the sun. Not because she liked mornings—she hated them, actually—but because anxiety never let her sleep past dawn. The silence of the early hours gave her space to prepare for another day of trying to be enough.
Before her feet even touched the floor, she reached for her phone. She checked her messages: none. She stared for a few seconds at the blank screen, then opened Mason's chat. Her last text—"Hope you're doing okay. I miss you"—sat there, unread. Two days now.
Her heart gave a dull ache, the kind she'd grown used to. A kind of sadness that didn't scream, but lived in the background of everything. She got out of bed, brushed her teeth in silence, then went into the kitchen to make coffee. Not for herself. For her roommate, Clara. Clara loved cinnamon in her cup, and Amina always made sure it was ready before she came out of her room. It had become a ritual, even though Clara never acknowledged it beyond a sleepy "Thanks" with a yawn.
Amina's life was full of these small kindnesses. Sending good morning messages. Remembering birthdays. Being the first to show up and the last to leave. She was the glue in every friendship, the steady one in her family. And yet, she often felt like she was the only one clinging to bonds that had already frayed.
She sipped her own cup—black, no sugar—and sat on the couch. Her phone buzzed. She jumped, heart skipping.
It was her mom.
"Are you eating properly?" the message read. "You've been looking a bit round in your pictures."
Amina stared at the screen, then slowly put the phone down.
She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or something. But her tears felt stuck, caught behind years of swallowing her emotions so no one else would feel uncomfortable.
Later that day, as she walked to work, she passed couples holding hands and friends laughing outside cafés. She thought of Mason. She thought of how, in the beginning, he had made her feel seen. Really seen. Like she was special. He would text her all the time, send voice notes with silly jokes, bring her her favorite snacks without asking.
But lately, everything felt distant. Cold. He'd stop replying for days. And when she brought it up, he'd say she was too emotional. "You always overthink," he'd told her the last time they argued. "It's exhausting."
So she stopped saying anything at all.
The thing that hurt the most wasn't the silence—it was the realization that she was the only one fighting to keep the connection alive. Just like with her family. Just like with her friends. She gave and gave, and when she needed even the smallest thing in return, the room emptied out.
Work was a blur. Smiling when expected. Delivering her tasks on time. Making space for others. She even stayed late so someone else could leave early. No one said thank you. They rarely did.
That night, she stood in front of the mirror after her shower. Her hair was damp, skin bare. No filters. No makeup. Just her. And for a second, she stared hard into her own eyes, like she was trying to find the girl she used to be.
She whispered, "What's wrong with me?"
The mirror didn't answer.
She sat on the edge of her bed and opened the notebook she kept in her drawer. Most of the pages were filled with lists and reminders, but on the very last one, she had scribbled something a week ago after a bad day:
"Maybe they don't love me because I'm not lovable."
She traced the words with her finger and felt tears push forward again. This time, she let them fall. Quietly. No sobbing. Just silent, hot tears sliding down her cheeks like they had been waiting all day for permission.
After a while, she picked up a pen and wrote underneath the words:
"Or maybe they don't know how to love. But I do. I love deeply. I care. I stay. That has to mean something."
She didn't feel strong yet. She didn't feel healed. But she felt something shift.
Because for the first time, she didn't blame herself. She didn't make excuses for everyone else's absence. She didn't try to justify why she wasn't getting the love she gave. She just… sat with the truth.
And sometimes, that's how healing begins—not with a scream, but with a whisper that says, "Maybe I deserve more."
Amina closed her notebook, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and lay down in the soft dark.
She didn't text anyone goodnight.
She kept that for herself.