My head still ached from all the crying. My throat burned from screaming words I never wanted to say. But no one came. No one heard me.
I curled deeper into my blanket, wishing it could protect me from everything — from the world, from my parents, from myself.
This room… this tiny, cluttered space… it felt like the only place in the universe that accepted me without questions. Without complaints. Without scolding. No one judged me here. The creases on my bedsheet, the dents in my pillow, even the soft rustling of the curtain in the wind — they all seemed to whisper, "You're safe now, Nyx."
At night, I stay awake pouring my heart out to the ones who listen — my pillow, my blanket, the old crack on the wall above my bed. My silent companions. My secret therapists. Some would say I'm crazy, but they don't know how it feels to have no one. They don't know what it means to cry in silence while pretending you're fine.
Maybe I really do have a future as a storyteller — or maybe just a heartbroken one. Or a loser who has failed in every invisible battle that life throws at her. I laugh sometimes. It's better than crying, isn't it?
But who am I really?
A dull, sulky, broken girl to my pillow.
An irresponsible, lazy, disobedient burden to my parents.
A cheerful, quiet, decent girl to my classmates and teachers.
And honestly? Maybe I deserve an Oscar. For acting like I'm okay.
But… I wasn't always like this.
Once upon a time — a long time ago, or maybe not that long ago — I smiled like I meant it. I laughed without guilt. I believed that my family would be my biggest supporters. I believed love existed in every home. That parents always protected, comforted, and understood. But now, I wonder… was I ever truly seen? Or just tolerated?
I've stopped asking questions. I know the answers would only hurt more.
Today was supposed to be a fresh start. A new school year. A new chapter.
But instead, I fought with my father. Cried in front of my mother. Broke down before even stepping out the door. All because of my fingernails. Fingernails! Something so small. Yet, to them, it meant discipline. Respect. Obedience.
To me, it meant control. It meant freedom. It meant one thing that was still mine.
And when they took even that away, I snapped.
I wish I could say it was just about the nails. But it wasn't. It was everything. Everything I'd buried inside. All the little humiliations. All the screams behind closed doors. All the times I cried into my blanket so no one would hear me. All the times I stayed silent when my voice was burning in my throat.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm the villain in this story. Maybe I deserve the yelling. Maybe I really am disrespectful. Maybe I am a burden.
But… no.
No. I can't think like that.
I may be broken, but I'm still standing. I may be hurting, but I'm still breathing.
And somewhere deep inside me, something refuses to die. A flicker of fire. A whisper: You are not weak. You are a Phoenix.
I wipe my tears again.
This is not the end of my story. This is just the beginning.
Knock. Knock.
My heart jumps.
A sound I didn't expect.
A simple knock on the door… but suddenly, the silence isn't comforting anymore — it's deafening.
Who is it?
Why now?
What do they want?
What if it's—
I hold my breath.
The questions swarm around me like smoke in a closed room.
And I realize… maybe everything is about to change again.
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