"You don't always see yourself unraveling.
Sometimes, it feels like standing still—
but everything inside you has already collapsed."
————————————————————
The sun still rose.
Birds still sang.
People still laughed outside the window.
But Aira felt none of it.
It was like life had become a glass box. She could see it happening, but not feel it. Not touch it. Not belong to it.
She didn't respond to Mira's message.
She'd stared at it a hundred times, reading the words over and over until they lost shape.
"I saw one of your posts. I'm glad you're still around."
Still around.
Like a ghost she hadn't buried properly.
Like survival was a shock.
The nerve of it.
But it didn't matter.
The damage was done.
Her chest ached with a kind of silent panic—tight, invisible, constant.
Her fingers shook without reason.
She stared at the ceiling so long that the plaster lines began to look like cracks in her sanity.
Her thoughts blurred, overlapped, looped—
"Why did she say she was glad I'm still around?"
"Does that mean she thought I wouldn't be?"
"Did I really almost not make it?"
"Why did I survive if I still feel like this?"
Aira went to reach out for her journal and start to write:
"Mira reaching out feels like someone digging into a scar I pretended healed.
I told myself I was okay. I told myself I moved on.
But my body remembers. My chest remembers. My bones remember.
And now, all I want to do is vanish."
"I want to be okay.
But I don't want to pretend I'm okay just so people stay."
"I want someone to sit with me in the silence without asking me to be better right now."
"I want the ache to stop, but I'm scared of who I'd be without it—because it's been with me so long."
That night, Aira curled into herself in bed.
Phone face-down.
Curtains drawn.
Blanket pulled over her like armor.
Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
Her head wouldn't stop spinning.
And the voice in her mind—
It had Mira's tone.
"You're overreacting again."
"No one else seems to have this problem but you."
"If everyone leaves you, maybe it's you."
She tried to distract herself—scrolled through videos, read anonymous online confessions, opened chat forums full of strangers talking about trauma.
But even in digital noise, she felt alone.
More alone.
She wanted to cry, but couldn't.
So instead, she folded herself tighter. Clutched the pillow to her chest and whispered to no one:
"I hate this."
"I hate that one message can ruin everything I built."
"I hate that healing feels like a lie."
"I hate that I still want her to miss me."
And under her breath:
"I don't want to feel like this anymore."
The next morning, she avoided mirrors.
She didn't want to see what exhaustion looked like in her eyes.
Didn't want to see how her skin dulled, her smile had disappeared.
It was just a couple of texts.
That's what someone would say.
But to Aira, it was like Mira had whispered to the old wound, and it cracked open without warning.
This wasn't just sadness.
It was grief.
For the girl she used to be before Mira.
For the friendships she ruined trying to please someone toxic.
For the version of herself that believed she was lovable without conditions.
The emotional trigger hit when she was in her room, cleaning out her bookshelf.
She found an old notebook.
One Mira had given her in their first semester. A birthday gift, covered in pressed flowers and soft pink quotes.
She shouldn't have opened it.
But she did.
The first page was in Mira's handwriting.
"To Aira — my sunshine girl. You make everything softer just by being here."
Aira sat on the floor.
The room around her blurred.
Her breath caught in her throat like a stone. Her hands trembled — not violently, just enough to remind her that the past hadn't really left.
"How do you grieve someone who's still alive?"
That afternoon, Mae called.
Aira ignored it.
She wasn't ready to let anyone in. Not when her chest was a storm and her thoughts were landmines.
But she stared at the call screen and whispered:
"Please! Please don't stop trying.
Ev—even if I don't answer."
That night, Aira finally texted Ray.
[ AIRA: ]
do you ever feel like you're healing
and then one small thing
just snaps all the progress?
[ RAY: ]
yeah
like climbing stairs for weeks
only to fall down in one second
[ RAY: ]
doesn't mean you're back at the bottom
just means today hurts
not forever
Aira stared at his words.
Tears slipped down without permission.
Soft. Silent. And Too Real.
He didn't push.
He never did.
That was both the reason she trusted him—and why she wanted to cry sometimes. Because he gave her space no one else did. And part of her wasn't sure she deserved it.