I would always tell her how grateful she should be for having another day to spend it with her family, friends.
How sheโs lucky to still have a comfortable home that would shelter her from the cold and cruel outdoors.
How she gets what she wants with just one ask.
But sheโd choose to dwell on other things;
On how she is unworthy of everything she has
Or how sheโs not capable of doing what others can
And how everything went wrong.. still go wrong
Sheโd wake up every 11 in the morning just to sleep for a few hours more
Sheโd stare at the food that she was left with, and decide to give it to her dogs
Iโm not hungry. Thatโs what she always tells me.
Some days, I believe her. Others, she tries to convince me itโs the truth.
She barely does anything. She doesnโt even read anymore and my God, she loves reading books โ sci fi, romance, suspense, anything.
She sleeps the whole afternoon just to wake up a few minutes before her parents gets home.
Theyโd ask her if she ate lunch and sheโd say Yes. Liar. We both know you didnโt.
I donโt when it was but I knew once, she tried to tell them the truth.
Why she refuse to eat. But then the light faded away from her eyes cause she thought about the scenario.
Here she is again, folks! Overthinking.
Her: I didnโt eat today
Them: You always do that to yourself. Do you want to get sick?
No, mom. Iโm already sick.
You see.. the problem is. Some people only think about the possibilities involving your physical health. Or how much food youโre wasting.
Or how irritating it is that youโre acting like that.
Never mind whatโs up in there in your head.
Theyโll just think youโre on your period.
Or that youโre emotional.
Some days she is happy, genuinely.
Youโll see the rush of excitement and how sheโs truly living.
Give it a week or month. Three months, tops. And there she goes again.
Crying her heart out and asking if someone recognized the slight change in her mood, in her ability to talk.
There she goes again, writing. Writing. Writing.
Just write it all out. It worked the last time. It will work again.
Then youโll get over this. Like always.
Youโre going to read another book or another story in your phone.
Youโre going to talk to your friends and not mention about this.
How you broke down a couple of minutes ago.
Because what will you say to them, right?
You broke down because of a book? About a girl who committed suicide cause she gave up on life?
Because you โ yourself โ sometimes think that way?
That sometimes you just want to fade away?
That it wonโt be as dramatic as Hannah Bakerโs death but it will be as painful?
No. You wonโt tell them.
So write. Open that laptop and write.
Write till there are no more words.
Write till you think that youโre just getting emotional. Again.
Blame the book because it opened up feelings.
It opened up buried memories.
Of you and your childhood and him and you and her and her friends and everyone else.
Write in roleplay โ where they donโt know the real you and what youโre going through. How they think itโs just you making stories but the truth is, every story and poem you wrote was a reflection on how you really feel
Write in your blog of your real life friends to someday see โ where they wonโt get to see your other writings because it is tucked away in another place. Because then theyโll know the things you donโt tell them when you meet them for coffee and bonding.
Till thereโs nothing left but those words.
And she wrote. Day. Night.
On her laptop, on her phone.
On her notebook, on her planner.
She wrote it on her skin and in corners.
Then she gets ready for bed and thinks about what she wrote.
And how she wants someone to find all of her writings, no matter how theatrical and ridiculous it was โ and tells her, I heard you.
Pick yourself up cause youโre not giving up tonight, I said.
And I swear, as she closed her eyes I knew she wanted to fight too.
