By Lena Raine
haven’t told anyone this before. Not in full. Not in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m brushing it off with nervous laughter or pretending it wasn’t as bad as it really was. But tonight, I’ll write it down. I’ll let it bleed onto the page because maybe, just maybe, telling the truth will set me free.
It happened on a quiet and unassuming night. The kind of night where the air feels too still, where even the shadows seem to hold their breath. I was driving home, the city lights blurring past me, the weight of exhaustion pressing against my chest. But it wasn’t just exhaustion. It was something heavier, something darker.
“I was tired of existing.”
Not in a way that screamed for help, not in a way that anyone would notice. I still smiled. I still showed up. I still answered texts with I’m fine, just tired. But I wasn’t fine. I was drowning in a silence that no one could hear.
And in that moment, on that road, with nothing but headlights and empty space in front of me, a thought slipped in so easily, so effortlessly, that it scared me.
What if I stopped holding on so tightly to this life that never seemed to hold me back? What if I let the car drift, just a little? Would anyone even notice? Would it even matter?
I gripped the wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. My heart pounded; my breath caught in my throat. I could hear it, the temptation, the whisper of an ending that felt too easy, too welcoming.
But then……..My phone buzzed.
It was the most ordinary thing. Just a vibration against the console, a tiny break in the suffocating silence. I glanced down.
It was a message from my sister.
“Hey, you up? I miss you.”
