I spend my days buried in books and my journal, keeping the world at arm's length, but always right there in plain sight. It's easier this way. The words on a page don't betray me. They don't twist, stumble, or come out wrong. I can rewrite them until they fit perfectly, until they finally make sense.
Talking to people? That's a different story. Every conversation feels like I'm walking on a tightrope, teetering with every word. One wrong step, one wrong thing said, and I'll fall—exposed, awkward, and with no way to take it back. It's safer to keep my answers short and my thoughts to myself. Safer to just avoid people altogether.
It's not that I don't want to connect. I do, really. Sometimes, I find myself watching groups of friends, their laughter effortless and light, and I wonder what it would be like to be part of that. But the thought of opening my mouth, of trusting myself to say the right thing... it feels impossible. What if I say something stupid? What if I ruin it all?
So I keep my distance. I let the books speak for me, let my journal hold the parts of me I can't share with anyone else. It's lonely, but at least it's safe.
Still, there's this ache—a quiet longing I can't shake. I wonder what it would be like to let someone in, to show them all the messy parts of me and trust they won't just walk away. But I'm not ready for that yet. Maybe I never will be. For now, I'll keep writing, keep hiding, and hope that someday I'll be braver than this.
Sometimes, feeling things deeply is like melting into the world around me, losing my shape as every moment floods me with sensations most people seem to miss. I notice the faint tremor in someone's voice, the way sunlight filters through a cracked window, or the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. These little details stir something inside me, something restless, as though I'm carrying the echoes of a thousand tiny stories no one else hears. It's beautiful, but overwhelming, like trying to hold water in my hands and feeling it slip through my fingers, leaving me raw and exposed, with that I walked into chemistry class, my mind spinning with a thousand thoughts, each one louder than the last, and there was no room left for peace. The hallway stretched out before me, the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead a low hum in sync with the chaos in my head.
The moment I stepped into the classroom, everything shifted. All eyes turned to me—some dismissive, some filled with barely concealed disdain. It was like I was an intruder, a piece that didn't fit. A few students exchanged glances, their whispers like daggers in the air. Others didn't even look at me, their indifference cutting just as deep.
I gripped my bag tighter, forcing myself to move forward, my stomach sinking with every step. The hum of voices around me blurred into an oppressive weight, pushing down on me, and though I couldn't make out the words, I could feel the pressure of them all.
Confused, overwhelmed, I slumped into my seat, stiff and mechanical, like my body had switched to autopilot. I fumbled with my books, desperate for something to ground me, anything. My hands shook slightly as I opened my notebook, the words blurring together in my unfocused gaze.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears, each thump louder than the last, drowning everything out, until it felt like the entire room was a distant echo, fading away. The rhythm of my panic was the only thing left.
A light tap on my shoulder broke through the fog, pulling me back to reality. I blinked, the pounding in my ears fading just enough to see the hand retreating. Asher.
He wasn't the loudest in the room, but he had this quiet presence, one that didn't go unnoticed. He moved with a calm confidence that seemed effortless—something that earned him respect from both his friends and teachers. He was good at school too.
I was still shaken, unsure of why he'd tapped me. My mouth opened, but before I could ask, he spoke first.
"Hey, are you okay? You seemed… out of it for a second."
He looked at me with concern, his brows slightly furrowed, but not in a way that made him seem impatient. His eyes were soft, almost searching, as if he was trying to understand me without judgment. There was a small curve to his lips, not quite a smile, but something close—a subtle kindness.
I was caught off guard that he'd even noticed. For a moment, I just sat there, frozen, staring at his face, trying to make sense of the soft concern in his eyes. I wanted to say something, anything, but the words got stuck. Finally, I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible, "Yeah, no... I'm fine." Even though I wasn't sure I believed it.
Asher didn't look convinced. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady but gentle. "Are you sure? You don't look okay."
His voice was calm, his words like a pebble dropped in a pond, rippling through me. I hated how easily he saw through me, how his quiet concern made me feel more exposed than I wanted to be.
"I'm fine," I said again, a little firmer this time, but the uncertainty still slipped through. I dropped my gaze to my notebook, the words blurring into one long line. "Just… thinking."
"About what?" he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I hesitated, my fingers gripping the edge of the page. "I don't know. Nothing important."
He didn't push, but the silence between us stretched. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt like he was waiting, giving me space to speak—without rushing me.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, after a pause, "it's okay if you don't want to talk about it. But it's also okay if you do. Either way, you don't have to pretend you're fine when you're not."
My chest tightened. How did he know how to say things like that, so easily, like it didn't cost him a thing? I glanced at him, half expecting to see impatience or judgment, but all I found was that same softness.
"It's not that simple," I said quietly.
"No," he agreed, his voice calm, "it's not. But it doesn't have to be simple to be worth saying."
I stared at him, my mind racing, trying to figure out how to respond, how to push his words away without sounding like a mess. But nothing came.
Before I could say anything, the teacher's voice cut through the tension.
"Elara," Mr. Nolan called, firm but not unkind. "I'd appreciate it if you'd join us back in the land of the living."
My heart lurched at the sudden attention. The room, which had felt distant, came crashing back. The buzzing of the lights, the rustling of papers, the quiet chuckles from classmates who'd noticed me zoning out.
"Sorry," I muttered, heat creeping up my neck as I avoided Asher's gaze. I straightened, trying to get back into the rhythm of the lecture.
Mr. Nolan gave me a small nod and turned back to the whiteboard. The lesson resumed, but I barely heard it.
For a moment, I just stayed still, staring at my notebook, though I wasn't really seeing anything. My pulse still raced, and I could feel Asher's gaze next to me, steady and unwavering. I didn't look at him, but I could feel it, like an invisible thread between us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him lean back in his chair, crossing his arms loosely. It wasn't dismissive. It felt like he was giving me the space I needed, letting me retreat back into my shell without making it feel like a loss.
I tried to focus on the lesson, but the words blurred together. All I could hear in my head was his voice, soft but insistent:
"It doesn't have to be simple to be worth saying."
The thought wouldn't leave me alone. I gripped my pen tighter and started doodling in the margins of my notebook, letting the scratch of ink drown out the noise in my head.
I wasn't going to think about it. About him. About how his words felt like they carved out a space I wasn't ready to fill.
But even as I tried to push it away, I knew it wouldn't leave me alone for long.
It's hard to explain the way Asher's words linger in my head, like a quiet ache that doesn't go away. I've spent so long hiding behind books and pages, keeping everything bottled up, because it's easier that way. When I talk to people, it's like I'm walking on a tightrope, always one wrong word away from falling. And now, after everything—his concern, the way he looked at me like I wasn't just some invisible kid in the back of the class—it feels like a crack in the armor I've spent years building.
I don't know how to handle that. I don't know what to do with the fact that someone noticed. And not just noticed, but cared enough to ask. It's not that I didn't want to connect. I do, more than I'm willing to admit. But the thought of letting someone see me, really see me, feels like a risk I'm not sure I'm ready to take.
I can feel his words in my chest, like they've wedged themselves into my ribs. "It doesn't have to be simple to be worth saying." They keep echoing, over and over, and I don't know what to do with them. Maybe he's right. Maybe I don't have to have all the answers or make everything make sense. But if I let him in, if I let anyone in, it feels like everything might just spill out—like I might lose control of the floodgates I've been holding closed for so long.