The week passed in a blur, just like the ones before it. Kayne and Sara were now a part of my daily life, conversations, and exchanges, but I couldn't help but wonder how much of it was real. How can I trust someone when I barely know them? How can I not worry about being betrayed when I barely know myself? Trust, for me, has always been a fragile concept, one I never really understood. Growing up, I believed that people were inherently good and that bad actions came from feelings like guilt, loneliness, or fear. But that innocence faded over the years. School—especially high school—taught me to be cautious, and with that came the gradual loss of self-confidence, not from the bullies, but from the girl I loved.
And that's when it clicked: love, they say, is supposed to show you trust, comfort, and happiness. It's supposed to make you feel like you're eating your favorite chocolate. But those feelings can also lead to the kind of tragic beauty that cuts deeper than anything else. I don't hate love. It taught me more than I ever could have imagined. Love crushed parts of me, but those very parts were rebuilt stronger, more aware, and somehow... better. Falling in love without realizing it was one of the most beautiful and painful experiences I've ever had.
But my mind can't stop thinking, can it? If anyone knew the thoughts that constantly swirl in my head, they'd call me a "deep" person, but not in a good way. People these days use the word "deep" to describe someone who contemplates the things teens supposedly shouldn't care about. But for someone struggling with anxiety, those thoughts aren't useless; they're the beginning of something darker. And I can't help but wonder: why do people like me, who understand their issues, never take action to fix them? I don't want to live my life like this, but my cowardice feels like it's killing me.
Then came the weekend. Sara invited me to her house. It wasn't far, so I walked there, unsure of what I was walking into. The moment I arrived, I was greeted by chaos. Her mansion looked like a castle, and cars were parked everywhere, some occupied by people making out, others engaging in much more. I walked inside, greeted by Sara and her boyfriend. He was tall, buff, covered in tattoos that spoke of mystery or perhaps pain. After a few minutes of small talk, I was left to wander her house. The interior was stunning, with blue LED lights setting a cinematic vibe that made everything feel surreal.
But why did I even come here? I had to pee. And finding a bathroom in this sprawling mansion felt like a treasure hunt. After some time, I stumbled into a room that looked like a bathroom. Relieved, I let out what felt like poisonous liquids. But then I noticed something—an XL box of condoms. As a feminist, I knew I should feel angry at the idea of exposing someone's private life for my amusement. But the temptation to be part of the gossip game was strong. In my mind, I questioned how girls could be so open about their sexuality while people like me—who don't care about bodies—find the world so confusing.
I left the bathroom and noticed the room was decorated with photos. Among them, I saw a picture of my ex-girlfriend with Sara, drinking beer. That hit me harder than I thought it would. My mind swirled, thinking about her, her influence on me, how she was a part of Sara's world now. I couldn't shake it. I drank three bottles of vodka in a haze, danced like a fool, and collapsed from the weight of it all.
The next morning, I woke up with a throbbing headache. Someone had carried me to a bedroom. I hated those mornings—the ones after you've had too much to drink. As I stumbled out of bed and made my way through the kitchen, I accidentally caught Sara and her boyfriend kissing. Sara, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, asked if I wanted breakfast. I declined, needing to leave, needing to escape.
I walked out of the mansion, and down the road, feeling like I had just experienced one of those one-night stands you read about, but it wasn't just about sex—it was about the overwhelming feeling of emptiness. I still couldn't shake the fact that someone like her, who had already left me once, still had a hold on me. How could I be so attached to someone who didn't even care? And why had I let myself fall into this trap of wanting something I knew I could never have?
My mind was so consumed by the idea of love that I almost forgot how bad it made me feel. But, despite all the hurt, I couldn't escape it. It was like a drug, and I was addicted to its poison. I questioned myself constantly—did I do something wrong? Did I push her away? I kept analyzing every moment, every word, every look, trying to make sense of it all. But the answers never came.
The worst part? The mind-numbing silence of being alone. It became easier to bury myself in books, to let stories distract me from the agony of reality. But deep down, I knew that ignoring my pain would never make it go away. My subconscious made sure of that, torturing me with nightmares for months. And every time I woke up, I was just as lost as before.
But even then, I couldn't give in to the temptation of ending it all. I still had a part of me that believed in saving others. Maybe I couldn't save myself, but if I could help someone else—maybe that was enough. But even that felt hollow.
I just wished I could have one more moment of peace. A moment where I could just feel. Not the pain. Not the loneliness. Just the warmth of being alive, of loving, of being loved, even for a moment. But, as always, the moment passed.