The fan hums overhead, indifferent and steady. There's a wet tissue crumpled beside the bed, mascara smudged like bruises beneath her eyes; nothing violent, just the weight of holding it all in. Again.
Questions come in waves, soft and steady, "Are you okay?", but the words get stuck on her lips, too tangled to the raw things she's been holding in. She nods and smiles at the lack of words in plain silence. But somewhere between the silence and the sting, a thought presses in, soft but relentless.
If this is what the story is, then why can't she be the one to write it ?
Not the polished version, not the one people like to read, but, the real one. Raw. Frantic. Breathing.
Her fingers move before her doubt can catch them. A blank page opens and without knowing the end, she begins.
It isn't pretty, the first line stumbles; the second contradicts it. There are no metaphors, no grand revelations, just thoughts she was never brave enough to say out loud. She writes about the panic attacks that made her feel like a stranger in her own skin. About the nights she cried in bathrooms and wiped her face before stepping back into rooms where she was supposed to smile. About the people who only saw the easy parts of her, and how tired she was of making it easy to be around her.
And somewhere between all of that, she finds a rythm. Not a flow, not yet; but, a pulse. Something that says, "I'm still here" . And this time, I won't disappear just because it's inconvenient.
The room is still quiet, the ache hasn't left. But she's not waiting to feel better anymore. She's writing not to escape the story, but, to finally live in it. The words don't come easy, but they come. Each one a step forward, even if she doesn't know where she's heading. She's not sure what she's writing or why yet. But with each line, she feels something shift. The silence between her thoughts starts to feel less like a cage, more like a choice. For once, the world outside doesn't matter as much. She's not writing for approval. She's not writing for anyone to understand.
It's just her, her mind, and the ink. And for the first time in a long time, she doesn't mind that the only voice she's hearing is her own. She lets the words spill out, raw and untamed. There's no polished surface, no perfect ending to chase. Just the realness of each thought, each feeling, each pause. She doesn't worry about how it sounds or if it's too much. She doesn't worry about who's reading or who's judgeing.
It's hers. Just hers.
With each sentence, she finds something new; a part of herself she had forgotten, a strength she hadn't realized she carried. The ache still lingers, but now it feels like a companion, not an enemy.
And in the mess of it all, she sees something unexpected. Not a solution, not an answer. But the courage to stay present, to be here in the midst of everything, broken and messy, yet so beautiful.
And then, the world outside keeps going; the hum of life, the noise of the fan, the chatter and the demands. But inside, she's still. Still enough to hear herself. Still enough to know that this moment is hers. There's no applause waiting. No one cheering the lines she's written, for the vulnerability she's dared to share. But as she looks at the page, the words staring back at her, something inside clicks. This is where it starts. Not with the world, not with other people's expectations, not with the hopes that things will magically make sense. It starts with her. Her decisions, her choices, her ability to create meaning out o fchaos. And for the first time, she doesn't wait for someone to hand her the pen. She doesn't wait for a sign or a reason.
It's not about fixing everything. Not about perfection. It's about writing her truth. In ink, on paper and in her life. She lets go of the fear that kept her from truly speaking. The fear that her words weren't enough. But now, with every line, with every stroke of the pen, she realizes, she’s not writing for anyone’s approval. She’s not writing to be seen or validated. She’s writing to understand herself. To be heard, even if it’s just by her own soul.
The ache in her chest isn’t gone, but it’s no longer a weight. It’s a part of her, a companion, a voice that’s led her to this point. And as she presses the pen against the paper again, she feels the power of her own truth. Her own story unfolding, one word at a time. This isn’t the story anyone else wanted her to live. This is the one she’s choosing for herself.
And that is when she decided and started writing her own story rather than letting anyone else.
The hum of the fan shifts once again. She blinks, her surroundings blur, then snap back into focus, each detail sharp and clear as if the moment was never there. The weight on her chest feels real again, the silence of the room closing in, but something is different. She's awake, she exhales long and shaky and the truth hits her; It was just a dream. And yet, the feeling lingers. The pulse, the words, "they were real, weren't they?"
Her fingers curl into the sheets, grounding herself. Her breath catches as she sits up, looking at the blank page once more. The room is still, the ache still present, but the suffocating weight from before is gone.
For a brief second, she wonders if any of it meant anything at all, the dream, the words, the shift she'd felt, but then the realization hits her. The story doesn't start in a dream. It starts with the decision to step into her own life.
She gets out of bed, walking to the window. The morning light creeps in, casting a soft glow on everything. Outside, the world continues to spin, just as it always has. But now, she sees it differently. The noise and chatter from before is not a barrier, but a part of the journey. She doesn't need silence to find her voice. She just needs to speak.
The dream showed her the strength she carries, the quiet courage to live in her truth, no matter how messy or unclear it may be.
And with that, she knows; she doesn't have to wait for the perfect moment. The time to write her story, to live it, is now.
With a final breath, she smiles, not because everything's figured out, but because she's ready to begin as the pen has always been in her hands, and now, she'll write a story that's truly hers.
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