I don't even know how to explain it. Everything just… slipped. My brain, my grades, my body, my life. One by one like dominos falling and I couldn't stop any of them. I kept telling myself it's fine, it's fine, you'll catch up, but I didn't. I couldn't. And I got so tired of pretending I wasn't drowning.
Nights were the worst. Everything got louder inside my head when the world got quiet. I kept thinking maybe it would just be easier if I wasn't here. Not because I wanted to die, but because I didn't know how to keep living like this. I tried hurting myself more than once. My hands always shook. Something always pulled me back, but I didn't know what.
Then that stupid night. 2 AM. Air heavy like someone put a weight on my chest. I was done. I didn't even cry anymore. Just empty.
And then… he was there.
Not in some magical glowing way. Just standing there like he always used to. My brother. The one I lost. The one whose absence still eats through every good thing. I thought I was losing my mind because how the hell do you see someone who's supposed to be gone?
He looked at me and it felt like he already knew everything."Why?" he asked. Simple. Sharp.
I said, "Nothing feels right since you left," and my voice cracked in that ugly way you can't hide. And his face… God, I don't know. It broke. Tears fell from him, not normal ones, but like grief spilling out of him.
He kept telling me I had a future. A real one. That I wasn't done. That I'd meet people who didn't hurt me. That I'd grow. That I'd survive this year and even laugh again. I didn't believe him. It sounded like someone just trying to tie me to the world for one more night.
And then he disappeared.Just gone like he wasn't even there.
I remember falling asleep on the floor. Waking up to sunlight burning through the curtains. My wrist was clear. Like the night had been wiped away with some cosmic eraser. And for a second I thought maybe I dreamed the whole thing. Maybe I'm losing it. Maybe I'm saved. I don't know.
But something changed.Not huge. Just enough.
I booked therapy. My voice shook the whole call. I started showing up. I met nicer people. I learned to eat again. Sleep again. Walk without feeling like I'm being dragged by something invisible. I wasn't consistent. I fell back a lot. But I grew anyway. Tiny steps, but they counted.
I started to fill my own cup, little by little. Learned how to sit with myself without feeling punished. I still felt lonely but not the same empty kind. More like… space waiting to be filled with the right things.
Then one day I started writing. Not a diary. Not a journal. Letters. To someone I haven't met. Someone I'm supposed to meet in a year and a half. My future husband, maybe. My maybe-someday person. I don't even know his name but it feels like he's out there breathing somewhere.
And writing to him makes me feel like I'm not alone.Like I'm surviving for something.For someone.
Making people feel seen is the only love language I know.So I write.Every night.Hoping when he finally finds me, I'll be someone who stayed alive long enough to meet him.