Tonight, I didn't expect miracles.
I only expected a moment of fragile truth It had been a few days since everything came crashing down—a few days since the weight of, a safe space where I could be unedited, unscripted.
And when I walked into the dorm at dusk, I left the world outside behind the closed door. I dropped my bag by the door and sank onto the cold floor of our shared room.
The overhead light threw soft shadows, and for the first time in a long time I felt utterly exposed. I hadn't said a word about my breakdown—I'd buried it beneath layers of excuses and long silences—but now I couldn't hold it in any longer.
Amelia was the first to notice. She was reclining on her bed with a book, but when she saw my hunched posture and the trembling in my hands, she silently got up.
She didn't ask immediately; she simply sat beside me.
Her presence filled the silence like a warm blanket.
After a long moment, I managed to whisper, "I… I feel like I'm falling apart."
Her eyes softened. "You're not alone, Alexis. I'm here." Before I could add another syllable, there was a gentle knock at the door.
It was Ethan. He paused, his hand on the knob, then stepped in slowly. "I—thought I'd check on you," he said, his voice careful yet earnest.
For a while, the three of us sat in a quiet circle on the floor, a safe trinity of shaky admission.
I tried to look away, ashamed of the scars I'd hidden for so long. But Amelia, almost tenderly, reached up and adjusted the sleeve of my hoodie.
There, faint but unmistakable, were the old marks along my stomach, shoulders, and thighs—the physical imprints of my past self-harm, the secret I'd thought I'd perfected at concealing.
Ethan's gaze shifted, concern lacing his tone. "Alexis.." His voice was not accusatory, just aching with worry. I stared at the scars for a moment before my voice came out in a broken murmur.
"For years. I thought if I could feel something—even pain—it would prove I was still here. That I still mattered."
Tears welled up, unbidden and raw.
Amelia's hand covered mine lightly.
"Sometimes, when you hurt, it feels like the only proof of your existence. But that pain isn't a badge of honour—it's just a wound."
She paused before continuing,
"I've seen you try to disappear, Alexis. But you're still here, and that means you're worth more than you think."
I tried to pull back, to close off the vulnerability, and raised my voice in a ragged demand,
"I don't need help! I just need time! Time to… time to be by myself without everyone's eyes on me."
Ethan interjected softly,
"I'm not asking to fix you. I just want you to know we're here, even if you need to be alone sometimes."
My voice trembled into a shout now,
"No, you don't get it! Every time someone tries to help, it reminds me of all the times I wasn't enough. I— I always feel I'm doing something wrong. Always failing—and then everyone blames me for not being more. I just— I need time to figure out who I am without you trying to change me!"
The room fell into charged silence.
My heavy breathing filled the space, punctuating each reluctant pause. Amelia's eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
Ethan's face was earnest, aching with the knowledge that my defiance was as much a shield as a cry for help.
After what felt like endless moments, Amelia said,
"Alexis, we didn't come in here to force you to be 'fixed.' We came because we love you—even when you say you don't need help, we know you're hurting. You deserve to be listened to, to be seen, exactly as you are."
I felt my voice break and then nearly shatter as I fought back more tears. "I—I'm scared,"
I admitted the words softer than before.
"Scared that if I let you in completely, I'll lose the only chance I have at learning how to be okay alone. And every conversation ends with me feeling I'm the problem."
Ethan knelt down a few feet away, keeping a respectful distance yet unwaveringly present.
"Maybe it isn't about fixing what you think is broken. Maybe it's about embracing every part of you—even the messy, painful parts—so you can start believing that you are enough."
I was silent, the charged atmosphere leaving me trembling still. Amelia squeezed my hand gently, and for a moment, the guard I'd built so tightly around myself softened.
"Listen," I said in a rough whisper,
"I know you both care. I know you're not leaving. But… sometimes, I just feel so overwhelmed that all I want is to be alone with my thoughts—even if they hurt."
Ethan's voice lowered further,
"We'll stay. Not to intrude, but to remind you that you're not as alone as your mind tells you."
The conversation didn't resolve everything. I wasn't suddenly healed or wholly open.
Yet, in that confrontation, in the clamour of shouts and tearful admissions, something fragile started to shift.
I realized that for the first time, I wasn't fighting my pain alone.
The care of Ethan and Amelia wasn't an intrusion—
it was an invitation to trust, however slowly.
Hours later, after the intensity of our revelations had ebbed into a fragile calm, I retreated to the window.
The night was deep and quiet.
Down below, the campus lights flickered as if in gentle conversation with the darkness.
I opened my worn notebook and began to write, not an apology or an explanation, but a simple note to myself:
Maybe I deserve to be seen, even if I don't know how. I didn't plan to share it. I just needed the act—an act of honesty—to feel less like a ghost wearing a mask of defiance.
I scribbled thoughts of loneliness, of fear, and of the possibility that perhaps the people who stayed could help fill the emptiness I had believed was eternal.
There was no dramatic promise to change overnight, no sudden breakthrough. Only the small, persistent hope that, slowly, I might learn that being vulnerable wasn't a weakness, but the only way to be truly, undeniably human.
As I closed my notebook, I looked over at the door where Amelia and Ethan had left earlier, the gentle murmur of their footsteps fading into the night. For a moment, I whispered to myself,
"I'm still here. Maybe that's enough."