I woke up feeling heavy, like the weight of the world had pressed itself onto my chest overnight. The sunlight streaming through my window felt sharp, almost accusing, as if it was asking why I couldn't just feel happy.
The literacy program, the friendships, Samuel's unspoken words—all of it suddenly felt overwhelming. The small cracks I'd noticed between Lydia and Tasha, the invisible tension I'd tried to ignore, were now magnified in my mind.
Maybe I'm too much. Maybe I don't belong here at all, I thought, staring at the ceiling. My stomach twisted with anxiety. Why do I keep putting myself in a place where everything could break?
By the time I arrived, the room felt smaller than usual. Laughter echoed, but it no longer felt inviting—it felt distant, like I was outside looking in. Every glance between Lydia and Tasha felt loaded with judgment, and I couldn't stop imagining that every word I said, every move I made, would spark another conflict.
Samuel arrived late, as if he knew I needed a lifeline, a tether to something safe. But even his presence couldn't anchor me this time. My thoughts were a storm, spinning around and around until I felt dizzy.
During the session, a small mistake I made while helping Mirembe triggered something inside me. My hands shook, my voice wavered, and I felt the heat of embarrassment rise to my face. I wanted to disappear, to run away, to pretend none of this mattered.
Maybe I should quit. Maybe I should just leave and stop pretending I can handle all this.
I clenched my fists under the table, trying to hold myself together, but the storm inside me wouldn't relent. The quiet joy I had felt just days ago—the sense of belonging, of connection—felt like it had been ripped away, leaving only doubt and fear.
After the session, I walked alone through the campus gardens, the wind tossing my hair into my face. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to shut out the world. Every smile I had shared, every kind word I had given, now seemed like it had come at a cost: my peace, my certainty, my calm.
By the time I reached my room, tears had quietly traced my cheeks. I sank onto my bed, hugging my knees, wishing for silence, wishing for space, wishing for the courage to face the tangled threads of friendship, loyalty, and unspoken feelings that were threatening to snap.
I opened my journal reluctantly. My pen hovered above the page, heavy and trembling.
Some days, the burden of caring feels too much. Some days, being connected feels like walking on glass. I wrote slowly, letting the words flow like a confession. But maybe these cracks are necessary. Maybe the only way to grow is to feel the weight of what matters.
Even as I wrote, a quiet hope lingered—tiny, fragile, but alive—that I could find my way back through the storm. That somehow, I could hold on without breaking completely.