Morning comes without permission.It leaks through the curtains in thin, pale strips—not warm, not comforting,just another reminder that the world keeps movingeven when I don't.
My eyes open slowly.My body stays still, heavy as stone.Last night clings to me like damp clothes:the trembling,the breath that wouldn't settle,the thoughts that kept sticking with me
For a moment, I lie thereand try to convince myself that today will feel different.
It doesn't.
My heart is already beating too fast,as if it woke up before I didand started panicking on its own.
I sit up carefully.The room tilts.My vision contracts at the edges like a camera lens trying to close.
Not again.
I steady myself with both hands on the mattress,forcing air into my lungs—slow, deep, shaky.
In.Out.In.Out.
But the panic lingers beneath my skin,pulsing like electricity in the wrong circuit.
I dress slowly.Each movement feels like lifting weights underwater.
By the time I step outside my room,I'm already exhausted.
My parents are in the kitchen.The moment they see me,their expressions harden—no curiosity, no warmth, no pause.Just irritation disguised as concern.
"You're up late.""You look tired.""Did you study at all yesterday?""You should be working harder."
I don't respond.I can't.My voice feels lost somewhere deep inside my chest.
They keep talking,their words stacking like bricksthat build a wall around my mind.
"You're too quiet.""You're not focused.""You're wasting opportunities.""Your cousins are doing so much better."
Each comparison is a cut.Not deep enough to kill,just enough to bleed slowly.
I swallow the pain the way I always do—quietly,invisible,like it's a duty.
When I step outside the house,the air feels thin.
Too thin.
The world around me looks normal:trees, roads, buildings, people.
But I'm not normal.Something inside me feels cracked—like the smallest touch could shatter it completely.
Walking to the bus stop takes more effort than it should.By the time I reach it,my hands are trembling again.
A gust of wind blows past.Cold, sharp.It slips under my clothes like a reminder that I can still feel something—even if it's only discomfort.
When the bus arrives,I hesitate.
Not because I don't want to go.But because I don't know if I have the strength to sit through another daypretending to be alive.
Still, I step on.Habit is stronger than desire.
Inside,the seats are half-full.People talk softly.Laugh softly.Exist softly.
I sit in the back,pressing myself against the window,as if I can disappear into the glass.
The bus starts moving.
The world outside blurs.Buildings, trees, cars.
And then my chest tightens again.
Harder this time.
My breath catches.Not a gentle stumble—a violent halt.
My fingers numb.My vision pulses.My ears ring.
A wave of fear crashes into me,cold and sudden.
Something is wrong.Deeply wrong.
I lean forward, elbows on knees,trying to breathe through it.
In.Out.In.Out.
But air refuses to enter properly,like my lungs are rejecting it.
My thoughts start spiraling too fast to control.
"What if this doesn't stop?""What if this is the moment everything breaks?""What if people are watching?""What if they know?""What if I can't breathe?""What if I'm dying?"
The panic grows teeth.
I stare at the floor,eyes wide,waiting for the wave to pass.
But it doesn't pass.It builds.Sharpens.Claws.
My heartbeat pounds against my skull—faster, harder, louder—like it's trying to escape.
Someone walks past me,glances briefly,their expression tightening as if I'm an inconvenience,a problem,a shadow they hope will move away.
I shrink into myself.
The fear turns into something heavier—something like despair.
"I can't keep doing this.""I can't keep waking up like this.""I can't keep pretending."
My throat closes.Tears burn behind my eyes,but they don't fall.They never fall.
Instead, they stay trapped,pressing painfully against the inside of my skull.
The bus keeps moving.Life keeps moving.People keep moving.
But I…I feel stuckin the same dark cornerI've been trapped in for years.
When the bus stops at my university,I don't get off immediately.
I sit there,body drained,mind screaming silently.
The driver looks at me through the mirror,waiting for me to move.
And I whisper to myself—barely a sound:
"Just get through today… even if it hurts."
I stand slowly.Step off the bus.And as the door closes behind me,the fear stays.The weight stays.The panic stays.
It follows me like a shadow I never asked for.One I can't outrun.