June 07, 2089
The night felt like an ocean—vast, unyielding, and suffocating in its silence. Every thought was a wave, crashing relentlessly against the fragile shore of my mind, threatening to pull me under. I floated somewhere in between, caught in the current of emotions I couldn't name, my body yearning for rest while my heart wrestled with its weight. In the stillness, the house around me became a fragile boat, creaking against the tide, and I clung to it desperately, waiting for dawn to offer the promise of steadier waters.
As the night deepened, the house grew quieter. The occasional creak of floorboards was the only sound that broke the stillness. I lay there in the dark, my mind refusing to let go of the thoughts swirling inside. My mother's concern still echoed in my head, her words lingering like a soft melody I couldn't escape. You don't have to carry everything alone—but what could I possibly share? What was there to say when the things I felt didn't even make sense to me?
Porshe stirred beside me, nudging his nose against my hand. His warmth was a quiet comfort, the gentle rise and fall of his chest a steady reminder that not everything had to be complicated. But my own heart felt like it was constantly at war, a battle between wanting to push everyone away and needing someone to reach out.
I closed my eyes, trying to force myself into sleep, but my mind wouldn't settle. The weight of the day—the funeral, the family, the overwhelming sense of expectation—pressed against me like an unrelenting tide. And yet, there was a part of me that wished I could just disappear into the night, fade away into the shadows where no one could see me struggling.
But that wasn't an option. Not yet.
The house outside my room was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of voices from downstairs. My parents were likely winding down from the day's activities, their voices soft as they shared the remnants of their day. They were probably talking about me, about how quiet I had been, how distant I seemed. I could imagine their conversation—my father's steady tone, my mother's concern—and I knew they were both waiting for me to open up, waiting for me to let them in.
But I couldn't. I wasn't ready. And every time I thought about it, that gnawing feeling of helplessness crept back in. How could I explain the feeling of losing myself piece by piece? How could I tell them that I was scared—that I didn't know how to handle the things that kept slipping through my fingers?
The night dragged on, stretching out like an endless void. I tossed and turned in the bed, feeling the soft hum of the silence press in from all sides. It was too quiet. Too still. My thoughts felt louder in the dark, echoing in my head with no place to go.
And then, just as I thought I might go mad from the silence, I heard footsteps outside my door. The soft tap of my mother's gentle knock was a welcome interruption, pulling me from the spiral of my thoughts.
"Hey," she called softly, pushing the door open. Her silhouette framed by the dim hallway light.
I didn't answer right away, unsure of what to say. My chest tightened at the thought of speaking, of letting her in any further. But she seemed to know, sensing the wall I had built around myself.
"I brought you some water," she said, stepping inside and placing a glass on the nightstand. "You haven't had much to drink today."
I nodded silently, grateful for her presence, but unsure of how to react. She sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes studying me with that quiet concern I couldn't shake.
"You're still up," she said, her voice gentle, like she was trying to coax me into something, into saying something.
"I couldn't sleep," I muttered, not looking at her. I stared at the ceiling, trying to avoid the weight of her gaze.
She didn't press further, just sat there quietly, as if waiting for me to speak. I could feel her presence beside me, a steadying force in the chaos of my own mind. The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was… safe. In that moment, I realized that maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to explain everything. I didn't have to fix it all.
"You know," she said, breaking the silence with her soft words, "It's okay if you're not okay. You don't have to have all the answers, sweetheart. We're all just trying to get through this, one day at a time."
The sincerity in her voice made something in my chest crack open, but I couldn't bring myself to say anything. The words felt too heavy, too real, too raw. How could I explain that I wasn't just dealing with the grief of losing a grandfather? How could I explain the slow erosion of my mind, the way everything seemed to blur together in a haze of confusion?
"I'm fine," I said again, my voice hoarse. I hated the sound of it, hated the lie hanging in the air, but I didn't know what else to say.
She reached over, her hand warm as it rested on my arm. "You don't have to be fine. You just have to be honest with us. You don't have to carry all this alone."
I wanted to cry then, to let it all go, but the words wouldn't come. How could I tell her that every day felt like a battle with my own mind? How could I explain that I wasn't sure I was still the same person I used to be?
I turned my face into the pillow, feeling the sting of unshed tears behind my eyes. I could feel the weight of my mother's hand on my arm, a silent reassurance that I wasn't alone in this, even if I couldn't find the words to ask for help.
She didn't push me. She just stayed, sitting beside me, offering the quiet comfort of her presence. We didn't speak for a long time. The silence between us felt more peaceful than any words could have been. And for the first time in a while, I allowed myself to feel something other than the constant pull of my thoughts. I let myself be.
Eventually, I heard her stand up, the soft rustle of her movements as she walked to the door. "If you need anything," she said, her voice soft and comforting, "I'm just down the hall."
I didn't answer, but I appreciated the sentiment. Her words stayed with me long after she left the room, a small flicker of warmth in the otherwise cold space I had built around myself.
The night stretched on, and eventually, I succumbed to the pull of sleep. It came slowly, as if my mind were still fighting against the weight of the day, the weight of everything I couldn't hold on to. But in the quiet of the room, with the soft rhythm of Porshe's breathing at my feet, I finally closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, I would find a way to speak the words that had been locked inside for so long. But for tonight, I allowed myself to rest, to let go, even if just for a few hours.
And when morning came, I would face another day. Another chance to find the strength I wasn't sure I had.