The Silence:

The sheets dwelled peacefully upon the bed. The fan kept on twirling, your cereal laying on the table getting cooler waiting. Rays sneaking through the window, searching for the presence that this room once find so much similar. In its place it finds a husk with no soul. the reality of you after doing the thing you always wanted to do. The desolate silence that haunts every corner replacing the contemplative hush from the previous night.

This trains comes in everyone mind when life does not take the turn they wanted. Faced with the failure of the distance, death of the loved ones, breakup (specified for us gen z because we are very dramatic when it comes to another person defining our worth) etc. We think that by obliging to this particular desire is freeing oneself from the cage of despondency not realizing that one is at the at the darkest valley of their life.

I am no mental health expert, quite opposite to that I am a frequent visitor of this valley, on the smallest things, didn't got the text back, father spoke harshly, brother didn't spoke at all, didn't called my friend for the 15th time today, a classmate called me gay (which to be quite honest I am just prettier than your sorry face) and many more irrelevant stuff. And to pull off the final curtain I have tried jumping off that cliff many times as well. Unsuccessfully I failed that's why I am going to bore you with my writing today hehe. Time slows differently here. Not in the romantic way they show in indie films where everything goes into soft focus. No, this is the kind of slow that drags. Heavy. Like your limbs are made of wet towels and your mind is a browser with 87 tabs open, none of them loading, and a faint static buzzing under it all.

Mornings used to be something. They had color. Now, they’re gray. Not even a dramatic, thunderstorm gray. Just the bland, stagnant kind that hangs in your chest and makes toothpaste taste like metal. I wake up, not because I want to, but because I have to pee or because the fan made a noise, I convinced myself was a ghost of my motivation. Sometimes I scroll. You know how it is—endless faces, successes, glowy soft lighting, gym selfies, wedding photos. It’s like everyone else got the cheat codes. Meanwhile, I’m still stuck on the tutorial level, walking into walls. One time, I saw someone post “healed people heal people.” I nearly choked. Bro, I’m just trying not to self-destruct on a Tuesday.

But see, that’s the thing. That’s the funny, stupid, almost magical thing. I didn’t self-destruct. Not because I didn’t want to. Hell, I drafted the notes. Planned the exits. Lined up the justifications like trophies on a shelf. But something—something dumb and small and maybe even sacred—kept me from going through with it. Sometimes it was a meme. Or my cat’s oddly judgmental stare. Or the way a friend absentmindedly said “love you” at the end of a call. I don’t know. It was never enough to fix me. But maybe it wasn’t about fixing. Maybe it was about pausing the spiral long enough to breathe again.

I started taking note of the pauses. The smell of coffee, even if I couldn’t drink it because of the anxiety. The quiet moment after rain when the world feels washed. That one professor who always asked if I was okay—not in a performative way, but like he meant it. Even the ache in my chest—because it reminded me that I could feel, still.

Slowly, and I mean agonizingly slowly, I began to realize depression isn’t a hole you climb out of. It’s a house you live in. Some days the curtains are open. Some days the roof leaks. Some days you burn the whole kitchen trying to feel useful. But it’s still yours. You don’t have to like it. But you can repaint a wall. Open a window. Invite someone in. Let them sit with you in the dark. Because god, the silence is loud when you’re alone. But when someone’s there, even if they say nothing, the silence changes texture. It becomes bearable. It becomes a language. And eventually, maybe, it becomes a song. I’m not “better.” This isn’t a redemption arc. It’s not a TED Talk. I’m not going to sell you mindfulness or lavender oil or twenty reasons to be grateful. I still flinch at loud sounds. Still panic when someone texts “we need to talk.” Still spend hours pretending to be fine.

But some days, I am.
Fine.
And some days, I am more than fine.
Some days, I am here. Fully. Laughing at dumb stuff. Crying at Pixar movies. Singing badly to songs that once hurt too much to hear.

And that’s something.

That’s enough, sometimes.