#quietbreakdown

Can I tell you something tonight?

I don’t really know how to keep doing all of this anymore, you know?

I mean...

I no longer know how to carry this life.

I’m supposed to be grateful to have it, right? It was given to me like a miracle... but what happens when, for a long time now, it has felt more like...

clumsily dragging it along.

As if I were some machine that needs daily maintenance...

just so it can keep carrying me, while I keep carrying it.

I’m supposed to keep going, to keep feeding it...

How am I supposed to watch it grow calmly, with the constant fear that if I don’t move faster... everything will run me over?

How am I supposed to make the most of it and go far, if every year that far away feels even farther?

Because I can’t fail... fail... fail...

I’m so exhausted, and I don’t know how to rest.

How much longer can I keep postponing everything under the naive idea that I’ll be able to do it later?

Because maybe... with a bit of luck, that later exists somewhere I can call home.

Or maybe one day I’ll feel like my life is a right, instead of something I’m simply forced to live.

Because what’s the point of holding onto a life that feels heavy just to exist in?

I keep reaching the end of the day only for my mind to start planning what comes next.

And the next one And the next one and the next one

I’m so tired of this noise.

I wish I could stop holding everything in... I wish I could drown just for tonight without feeling like my lungs are about to burst.

I wish I could hide in warmth and pretend I truly care about what will happen tomorrow.

That my whole body could dissolve into the great lie that says, “I’m safe.”

That simply breathing here and now is enough.

What does it really feel like to disappear?

Is it truly cowardice to no longer want to keep carrying this version of myself?

To not look back and simply stop existing in the lives of others.

It is my bittersweet fantasy, one that can only become real when I am asleep.

I don’t want to feel anything anymore.

I want it to stop hurting.

I want one night of silence, without fear, without noise, without this constant feeling that I am carrying too much.

Without the pressure of not being allowed to fail, of not becoming a failure.

It is suffocating. It drowns me, pulls me under.

I just want to rest for a little while...

I found peace from the moment you came into my life.

I can’t imagine anyone else being capable of doing what, with a smiling face, you awakened within me.

All the sadness of that day, all the pain of those days,

I came to appreciate them, knowing you would always be by my side.

Walking beside you beneath a gray cloud, you were the half that completed all of my existence, and despite everything, you still remain a light in my life.

I beg you, please forget the moments we once shared.

I came to the conclusion that this will be my last year here.

Today, 11/05/2026. A month and a few days before my 22nd birthday.

22 is a good number, though it does not even represent a quarter of the average human lifespan.

There is something deeply unsettling about realizing time can suddenly become finite.

Not in the abstract way people like to romanticize. Not in the poetic sense that makes others speak of sunsets, gratitude, and living fully.

No, it becomes arithmetic.

a number, an estimate, a quiet expiration date lingering in the background of every ordinary moment.

For most of my life, I moved as if time were an infinite resource.

Something guaranteed. Something so painfully ordinary that I never once thought to question it.

And now even that illusion has been taken from me.

Compressed into something smaller, narrower, manageable enough to count.

How strange it is to continue existing after that.

To keep studying, answering messages, pretending future tense is still a language I fluently speak.

Everything feels faintly absurd now.

Deadlines. Long term plans. The casual arrogance of the word “later.” As if "later" belongs to everyone equally.

I have not discovered hidden beauty within the fragility of existence.

I only feel tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. A heavier kind. A structural exhaustion.

The kind that settles quietly into your bones, your thoughts, your breathing.

As if some essential part of me has already begun mourning something that has not happened yet.

Perhaps that is the cruelest part. Not death itself.

But being made aware of it far too early.

Being forced to carry its outline through otherwise ordinary days.

There is no elegant conclusion to this. No profound lesson. No inspiring final perspective.

Only this:

Thank you for sharing a part of your life with me.

Thank you for giving me your constant love and happiness, for the way your smile alone was enough to make me feel okay again.

I don’t usually talk about you, not because I dislike remembering the wonderful person you were, but because it hurts too much.

We were like siblings, the best friends in the universe.

Your home was my home, and mine was yours.

And even so, I never saw how badly you were struggling.

What were you thinking? What were you feeling? Why didn’t you talk to me? Why didn’t you call me?

Why didn’t I give you more hugs when your little eyes no longer shined the way they always did?

Why didn’t I notice in time?

Had I done so, I don’t know if things would have changed, but I would have tried.

I would have given everything for you, just as I know you would have done for me.

I dreamed of you today, after all these years.

I saw your face again, your teary eyes, everything I still miss.

I hope that one day I can see you again.

I don’t know under what circumstances, or in what time

but even if I don’t speak about you, even if I avoid thinking of you,

doomed playing in the background.

cold floor beneath my skin, moonlight through the window, and a body too tired to hold itself together properly.

The moon is glowing intensely tonight, it carries that particular kind of brightness that helps me come back down to earth and breathe.

As if, for a moment, something outside of me remains still.

No demands, no expectations, no endless list of things waiting for me tomorrow.

Just this pale light resting quietly over everything.

It slips through the dark so gently that even my restless mind seems to soften beneath it.

And for a few brief minutes, I can pretend the world is not asking anything from me.

That I am allowed to simply exist here, with this aching head, tired eyes, and heavy thoughts.

Not becoming, not fixing, not chasing,

Only breathing.