|SHELBY|

I don’t know who I’m writing this to.

I really don’t.

God?

The universe?

Myself?

I don’t even know if I believe in any of those things.

But I need to say this.

Because it’s sitting in my chest like a scream that never got out.

I’m tired.

And I know everyone says that,

but I mean it in that way that makes it hard to move.

Like even breathing feels expensive.

I’m 20.

Twenty.

People say I’m young,

say I have time,

say I’ve got my whole life ahead of me—

but what they don’t know is

how hard it was just to make it this far.

I’ve already fought things

most people pray they never have to face.

I’ve lived inside a brain that turned against me—

saw things that weren’t there,

heard voices that didn’t belong to anyone.

And for a while,

I wasn’t sure I did either.

And then the drinking.

God.

I drank because I didn’t want to feel

and then drank because I couldn’t stop

and then drank because what’s the point anymore?

People saw me smiling.

No one saw me shaking.

No one saw me begging a bottle to feel like a hug

instead of a noose.

But I fought.

And I won.

At least, I think I did.

Or maybe I’m still fighting and just too numb to tell.

But now that it’s quieter—

now that the worst seems behind me—

I’m scared again.

Because peace feels like a setup.

Like something is coming,

waiting around the corner with my name in its mouth.

And I’m just here,

praying to something I don’t know if I believe in,

“Please. No more.”

No more war inside my head.

No more addictions wrapped in comfort.

No more nights staring at the ceiling wondering

how the hell am I still alive?

But I know that’s not how life works.

I know pain doesn’t need permission to show up.

And I’m scared,

because I don’t know if I’ve got another fight in me.

Not like the last ones.

Some days I still want to disappear.

Not die.

Just… vanish.

Turn to mist.

Float above all of this

and finally rest.

But I don’t.

I stay.

Somehow.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it feels pointless.

Even when I don’t know who I’m writing this to.

Maybe it’s just proof.

That I’m here.

That I made it through hell

and now I’m standing in the middle of nothing,

asking whatever is out there—

Please.

Don’t make me do it again.

Or if you do…