Trigger Warning: Depictions of depression and suicide.
The air in Syra's tiny bedroom felt suffocating, thick with the weight of unshed tears and unspoken fears. At thirteen, she had learned to hate mirrors. The reflection staring back—almond eyes shadowed by exhaustion, porcelain skin marred by stress-induced breakouts, lips bitten raw—felt like a stranger. Too pretty to be real, they whispered at school. Too fragile to survive, her own mind echoed.
Syra sat on the edge of her bed, her trembling hands clutching a crumpled math test. A red 98% glared at the top, but Li Wei's disapproving frown from dinner replayed in her mind. "Almost perfect isn't perfect, Syra. You must try harder." Beside the test lay a torn note from Xiao Hui: "Stop acting so special. Everyone knows you're just a freak.
But it was the memory from earlier that afternoon that finally shattered her.
---
Mr. Chen had cornered her in the empty hallway after school, his breath reeking of cigarettes. "You've been avoiding me, Syra," he purred, blocking her path. "After all I've done to help you… Ungrateful girls don't deserve kindness." His hand brushed her wrist, lingering too long. Syra froze, her throat closing like a vise. She'd run, but his laughter followed her—sharp, mocking, relentless.
---
Now, the walls of her room seemed to pulse with his voice, Xiao Hui's sneers, her father's disappointment. She stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink until her knuckles turned white. The mirror reflected fragments of a girl she no longer recognized: the Persian lullabies her mother sang felt like lies; her Chinese father's pride felt conditional. You're a burden. A mistake. A doll everyone wants to break.
In the drawer, her hands found the razor blade she'd stolen from Li Wei's shaving kit weeks ago—just in case.
---
The first cut was shallow, a tentative scratch on her wrist. Pain flared, sharp and clean, cutting through the numbness. For a moment, she felt *alive*. The second cut was deeper. Crimson bloomed, stark against her pale skin, and Syra gasped—not from pain, but from a dizzying rush of control. This is how I disappear.
But as blood trickled into the sink, her vision blurred. A memory surfaced: Nasreen's voice, singing a Persian lullaby after a nightmare. "My brave girl. You are stronger than the dark."
Syra's knees buckled. She slid to the floor, clutching her wrist, sobs tearing through her. "Mama… I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
---
Nasreen found her minutes later. The scream that tore from her mother's throat was primal, a sound Syra would never forget. Li Wei burst in, his pragmatic calm shattered as he pressed a towel to her wrist, shouting for an ambulance.
In the hospital, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Syra drifted in and out of consciousness, catching fragments: "Why didn't she tell us?" Li Wei's choked voice. "My fault… my fault…" Nasreen's weeping.
A nurse with gentle hands stitched her wounds. *"You're safe now,"* she murmured. Syra wanted to believe her.
---
That night, Nasreen refused to leave her side. She climbed into the narrow hospital bed, cradling Syra like she was five again. "I thought I'd lost you," she whispered, tears soaking Syra's hair.
Li Wei stood in the doorway, his face ashen. "I… I only wanted you to have a better life," he stammered, voice breaking. "I didn't know… I didn't see."
Syra turned her face into Nasreen's shoulder. "I'm tired," she whispered. "I'm so tired."
---
As dawn filtered through the blinds, a social worker arrived—a woman with kind eyes and a soft voice. *"We'll get you help, Syra,"* she said. *"You don't have to carry this alone."*
Syra stared at her bandaged wrist, the physical pain a dull echo of the storm inside. For the first time in years, she let herself cry—not silent, hidden tears, but great, heaving sobs that shook her body. Nasreen held her tighter, murmuring Persian endearments, while Li Wei gripped her hand like a lifeline.
This isn't the end, Syra realized dimly. This is where I choose to fight.