The next day, I didn't go to class. I didn't text Amelia or Ethan either. Instead, I packed a hoodie, an old notebook, a bottle of water, and took the next local bus headed toward the coast. I didn't know what I was looking for. I just knew I needed space that breathed. The campus air felt too full of eyes. My room too full of silence I hadn't earned. But the beach? The beach didn't care who you were. --- It was almost empty when I arrived. Just a stretch of grey-gold sand, some drifting seagulls, and the sound of water doing its lifelong job: arriving, leaving, and arriving again. I took off my shoes and walked until the sand cooled beneath my feet. Sat down just far enough that the tide kissed my toes, then retreated like it hadn't meant it. And for a long time, I didn't move. Didn't think. Didn't write. Just existed. Let the wind tangle my hair. Let the salt coat my skin. Let myself breathe without performing. --- I don't know how long I sat there before they came. An older couple—probably in their seventies—walking hand in hand, their shoes in one hand and a plastic bag of sandwiches in the other. They looked at me as they passed. The woman smiled. "You look like your heart's somewhere else." I blinked. "Is it that obvious?" Her husband chuckled. "It's the beach. It brings all the quiet people out to cry." I smiled, just a little. They stopped a few feet from me, spread out a thin cloth blanket, and sat under the shade of a tree near the shore. A few minutes passed. I thought they'd forgotten about me. Then the woman called out, "We brought too many sandwiches. Come eat before they get cold." I hesitated. But my stomach didn't. So I went. --- We sat cross-legged, eating quietly. No questions about my name. My degree. My future. Just... sitting. After a while, the man pointed to the horizon and said, "The ocean's honest. She shows up as she is." I glanced at him. He smiled. "Some days calm. Some days angry. Some days everything at once. She never apologizes." His wife added, "It's why people come here when they don't know who they are. The water doesn't rush you." I looked back at the sea. Let their words settle. Then—without meaning to—I said, "I pushed people away. The only people who actually stayed. And now I don't know how to reach back." They didn't look surprised. "You don't have to," the woman said. "Not all at once." "But I hurt them." "Have they left?" I shook my head. "Then maybe they understand something you don't yet," she said gently. "What?" "That help isn't about fixing. It's about being there. Quietly. Even when you shout. Even when you hide." Her husband nodded. "You're not a project. You're a person." I didn't realize I was crying until one tear slipped down my cheek and caught on my lip. I wiped it away, quickly. They didn't stare. Just passed me another sandwich like nothing had happened. --- When I finally stood to leave, the woman touched my arm and said, "Whoever they are, if they're still there, let them stay. That's rare. And it's worth more than pride." I nodded, throat tight. "Thank you." The man grinned. "Next time, bring juice. These sandwiches deserve better." I smiled all the way back to the bus stop.
---
Back in the dorm that night, I didn't say anything. But I left my door cracked open for the first time in days. And when Amelia walked past, she stopped. Just looked at me. "I went to the beach today," I said. "Good." She didn't ask why. She didn't need to. She sat beside me on the bed. Quiet. Present. Later, I texted Ethan.
Me: The ocean said you're dramatic but decent.
Ethan: Did she really say that? Or are you projecting?
Me: Don't ruin it.
He sent a voice note of himself trying to mimic ocean waves while beatboxing. It was terrible. I saved it anyway.
---
I still hadn't said thank you. Still hadn't apologized. Still hadn't opened the notebook again. But tonight, for the first time, I wasn't scared of the pages. And that was enough. Chapter 8: Versions of Me That Weren't Enough I've changed myself for people more times than I've changed my phone wallpaper.
Funny Alexis.
Mature Alexis.
Quiet, mysterious Alexis.
Relatable "not-like-other-girls" Alexis.
Ambitious Alexis.
Low-maintenance Alexis.
Always-there-when-you-need-her Alexis.
I've tried being everyone. And none of them worked. Because people still left.
Sometimes without warning.
Sometimes with explanations that made no sense.
Sometimes they just... stopped replying.
And I?
I'd still wait.
Refresh the chat.
Replay the last message.
Wonder if I said too much, or not enough.
If I should've laughed more.
Or texted less.
If I was too available.
Too cold.
Too weird.
Too me.
---
People always said I was "well-liked." But no one stayed. Not really. I was the filler friend.
The background friend.
The group photo extra.
The one who clicked the picture but was never in them, no one bothered to take her's anyway.
Always in the room.
Never in the heart.
---
There were birthdays where ten people showed up, but none of them knew what flavour of cake I liked.
Group chats where they tagged everyone but me. Study sessions where I took notes for everyone, then sat alone during the break.
I was surrounded, and still lonely.
I learned how to keep my jokes short.
How to smile without showing teeth.
How to pretend that silence didn't sting when the conversation passed over me like I wasn't there.
---
There was a year—just after middle school—when the loneliness got loud. Too loud.
I didn't have the words for it, but my body knew. So I tried to feel something through pain.
Just to know I was real.
Just to remind myself there was still something underneath all the numb. I kept it hidden.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't even planned.
Just sharpness and skin.
Quiet and fast.
It didn't make me feel alive.
But it gave me five seconds of quiet.
And that was enough back then.
---
Every time something went wrong, it was always my fault. According to everyone else, anyway.
Friendships ended with:
"You overthink too much."
"You're just really intense."
"You didn't try hard enough."
But they never saw the version of me who retyped every text three times.
Who offered help before being asked.
Who laughed at jokes that stung.
Who stayed up making playlists for people who forgot my birthday.
It was always: "You pushed them away."
Never: They weren't meant to stay.
---
Even now, I still don't know how to stop blaming myself. Even now, I still flinch when someone says "Can we talk?" Because in my head, I've already lost the argument.
In my head, I've already become the villain.
In my head, they've already decided I'm too much to love.
---
I wonder, sometimes, what kind of person I would be if I hadn't spent so much of my life apologizing.
Apologizing for existing too loudly.
Apologizing for texting first.
Apologizing for being too smart, or not smart enough.
For dressing wrong.
Sitting wrong.
Speaking wrong.
Being wrong.
Always wrong.
---
My parents expected perfection.
Everyone else expected convenience.
And somewhere in between, I lost the parts of me that were soft. That were allowed to take up space.
That didn't ask "Am I doing this right?" every time I spoke.
---
There's this girl inside me—ten years old, knees bruised, clutching a science trophy like it meant something. Her hair's messy. She's standing at the edge of a group photo, hoping someone remembers to call her over. No one does. So she smiles anyway. That girl still lives inside me. And some nights, I sit with her. Hold her hand. Tell her I'm trying to do better.
---
Maybe that's why I keep pretending I don't need help. Because every time I've reached out, the hand I held either pulled away or pushed me deeper. And maybe I've started believing that's all I deserve.
---
But now? Now there are people who stay. Even when I try to vanish. Even when I shout. Even when I tell them to leave. They stay. And that? That scares me more than being alone ever did. Because what if they see all of this—
And love me anyway?