The evening settles in quietly, without asking for permission.
I notice it while standing near the window, watching the city lights blink on one by one, like the day is slowly exhaling. My room feels smaller tonight. Not suffocating—just aware of itself. As if it knows I'm thinking too much.
I sit down on the bed and take off my shoes, letting them fall wherever they land. The fan hums above me, steady and patient. I like that sound. It doesn't rush. It doesn't expect anything from me.
My phone lies beside me, screen dark. I haven't checked it in a while, not because I'm busy, but because I'm afraid of what I might feel when I do.
Eventually, I pick it up.
There's a message.
Did today feel heavy for you too?
I read it slowly, once, then again. It's strange how some questions feel like they're asked carefully, as if the person on the other side is aware that words can bruise.
I type, pause, delete.
Type again.
Yes, I finally send.
More than I expected.
---
The reply comes after a short pause.
Do you want to talk about it?
I stare at those words for a long time. My instinct is still the same—minimize, avoid, redirect. Years of silence don't disappear just because someone asks kindly. They sit inside you, trained and ready.
I take a breath.
I don't even know where to start, I reply.
Anywhere is fine, they write back.
We don't have to finish the story today.
That line does something to me.
It removes the pressure.
It makes space.
---
I lie back against the wall, phone resting loosely in my hand. The ceiling looks the same as it always does, but my thoughts don't scatter as much tonight. They line up slowly, like they've been waiting for permission.
Sometimes, I type, I feel like I'm still that kid. Even when I'm not.
The three dots appear. Stay. Disappear. Come back again.
I used to think that too, they reply.
Like my body grew up but something else stayed behind.
I swallow.
The words start coming more easily than I expect.
I don't talk about it much, I write. Because once I start, it feels like I won't know how to stop.
There's a pause this time. A longer one. I wonder if I said too much. Old fear tries to rise.
Then the message comes.
You don't have to stop, they say.
You can slow down instead.
---
Outside, someone laughs loudly. A bike passes by, its engine cutting through the air. Normal sounds. Grounding sounds. I focus on them for a moment, then look back at the screen.
There were days, I type, when staying quiet felt safer than breathing.
I hesitate, then add another line.
And now silence feels like a habit I can't break.
My phone vibrates almost immediately.
Habits were built to protect you, they reply.
That doesn't mean you have to keep them forever.
I close my eyes.
For years, silence wasn't just something I did.
It was something I trusted.
---
I sit up and pull my knees closer, feeling the weight of the moment settle into my chest. Not painful. Just real.
I saw something today, I continue. A group of boys joking around. It wasn't even serious. But my body reacted before my mind could.
What did it feel like? they ask.
I think about it carefully.
Like the ground moved, I reply. Like I wasn't sure where I was anymore.
There's no immediate response this time.
When it comes, it's slower, more deliberate.
That happens, they say. Your body remembers things your mind tries to forget.
I nod, even though they can't see me.
---
A memory surfaces then, uninvited but clear.
A narrow corridor.
The smell of soap and damp walls.
Someone telling me to stand still while everyone else watched.
I shake my head slightly, as if I can physically push the memory away. My grip tightens around the phone.
I don't like how easily it comes back, I type. No warning. No control.
You didn't have control then, they respond.
That doesn't mean you don't have it now.
I let that sentence sit with me.
---
Minutes pass. We don't talk constantly. Just enough to remind each other we're there. The silence between messages feels different from the silence I'm used to. It doesn't press down. It waits.
At some point, they send another message.
Can I ask you something?
I hesitate, then reply.
Okay.
What do you want now? they ask. Not what you think you should want. Just… what do you want.
The question catches me off guard.
Wanting was never something I practiced. Surviving always came first.
I stare at the wall, at the faint crack near the corner that I've memorized without trying. My thoughts feel slow, heavy.
I want to feel normal, I finally type.
They respond gently.
What does "normal" mean to you?
I think about it.
Not feeling scared for no reason, I write. Not rehearsing every sentence in my head. Not feeling like I owe the world silence.
The reply comes after a pause.
That sounds less like "normal" they say, and more like "free."
The word stays with me.
Free.
---
I set the phone down for a moment and run a hand through my hair. My heartbeat feels louder than usual, but steady. No panic. No rush.
When I pick the phone up again, there's another message waiting.
You don't have to be brave, it says.
You just have to be honest when you can.
I read that twice.
Then, for the first time, I do something I rarely do.
I type without overthinking.
I'm tired of pretending I'm okay.
The response is immediate.
I know, they say.
And I'm glad you don't have to pretend here.
---
The room feels quieter after that. Not empty. Just settled.
I lean back and let my shoulders relax. I hadn't realized how tense they were until now. The fan keeps humming above me. Outside, the city continues being itself.
Nothing dramatic changes.
No big realization.
No sudden healing.
Just the simple act of being heard.
---
Later, when the conversation slows naturally, I check the time and realize how late it's gotten. I should sleep. My body feels tired in a good way.
I should rest, I type. Tomorrow's another day.
Yeah, they reply. But you don't have to carry today alone anymore.
I smile faintly at the screen.
Goodnight, I send.
Goodnight, comes back. Take care.
---
I put the phone down and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling once more. Same cracks. Same shadows. But the space inside me feels slightly different tonight.
Lighter, maybe.
Not because things are fixed.
But because something has been said out loud.
And once words exist, they don't disappear completely.
---
Before sleep takes me, a thought drifts in quietly.
Silence kept me alive.
But maybe words will help me live.
End of Chapter 6