The morning air felt like glass—sharp, cold, and ready to shatter with the slightest sound. I opened my eyes to the same cracked ceiling I've stared at for years. The world moved outside, but inside me, nothing stirred. I was living, breathing, functioning... but it all felt mechanical.
Routine is a curse disguised as order.
I sat on the edge of my mattress. My phone buzzed, but I didn't check it. Messages? Maybe. Deadlines? Probably. Fake concerns masked as politeness? Most definitely.
I washed my face and stared at my reflection—eyes too hollow for someone my age. I was too young to be this tired. Too tired to care.
I walked through streets that looked the same but never felt like home. People passed by, wrapped in their own lives, never noticing the quiet battles of the person next to them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm invisible. Other times I wish I were.
"Hey! You dropped this."
I turned. A girl with short hair and sharp eyes held out a notebook. Mine. I must have left it loose in my bag.
"Thanks," I muttered.
"You look like someone who writes about sad things," she said casually.
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
The interaction ended as quickly as it started. I kept walking.
At school, I was a shadow with a name tag. Teachers talked to me but not with me. Friends? I had classmates. That was enough, I guess.
"Your project's late," said Mr. Ravi, his tone more disappointed than angry.
I nodded. "I'll finish it tonight."
"Will you?" he asked, but walked away before I could answer.
It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's, really. The weight I carried wasn't visible, so no one thought it existed.
I wasn't angry. Just... numb.
Back at home, I laid down again—my body tired, but my mind running laps. Regret. What-if's. Old voices. Silence.
And then I wrote:
"The hardest part of living isn't breathing.It's pretending that the weight you carry is just a part of growing up."