quiet nights and the cruel mornings

meow

y/n sighed, watching the sun rise again from her bedroom window. Another night wasted to her own thoughts, and another day to survive, only for the cycle to repeat.

Life was normally easy for y/n. From her parents who loved her and gave her everything, even her small apartment in the city, to all her friends that she made along the way, to the amazing score she got on her SAT, y/n had the world in her hands, and she knew it.

So what went wrong?

Maybe it was when y/n had her first heartbreak, the feeling of guilt and what if's encasing her, chaining her body to her bed, her eyes to the roof in a desperate attempt to fight her inner monologue, to tell herself that maybe, just maybe, she deserved love. 

Y/n sat up, noting the way her back cracked and how stiff her knees felt. It was she deserved. It what she deserved for not cleaning herself, for letting herself decay into nothingness.

Her floor was covered in dirty clothes and the occasional piece of paper, a quiet yet constant reminder of what love had done to her. Her walls were covered in sticky notes, some saying she was amazing for coming so far, that she should be proud, that every little step was still a step forward, others calling her a monster, a cruel selfish girl who would end up alone and homeless, never finding love, never finding anything. Her desk was covered in unfinished drawings, of what could be but what she knew never would be, and the occasional unfinished 2-minute noodle bowl and coke giving the room an unpleasant scent, one that was so notably how she felt, just decaying in her room, inevitably being thrown out and being replaced, her roof an eerily clean white, an emptiness to contrast against the clutter and mindless numbness that she felt.

 Her alarm clock snapped her out of her self pity, blaring a corny pop song that she used to like.

It was 6:00 am. Time to get ready.

Y/n staggered out of her room, feet delicately dancing between pin points of floor, and into the even messier apartment. 

Dust and the familiar smell of decay defined the apartment, with takeaway boxes littering the floor, the shelves, everything. It was sad, she noted, dragging herself to her bathroom, mold slowly growing from the tiles on the floor and the smell of chemicals and musk decorating the small room, arguably the best smelling room in the house, her musty, oversized brown hoodie catching on the door, almost causing her to trip onto her black sweatpants, stains spotted and unpleasant. 

She stumbles, almost falling but barely managing to catch herself on the slippery sink, fingers clawing desperately for leverage. She manages to stabilize herself, before managing to look at her reflection, an expression of surprise etched on her face.

Her eyes had bags the size of her pinkies under them, somewhat enunciating the gold specks that dotted her iris amongst the chocolate brown that mostly defined her eyes, barely visible due to the messy bangs that covered them, knotted and unkempt and a lot worse than she thought. Her skin, once sun kissed and glowing, was now pale and dull, enunciated the growing area of pimples, namely on her cheeks and long nose, septum piecing finally healed, the silver giving a sharp contrast of cleanliness to her otherwise disgruntled appearance. Finally, her lips were chapped and there was the faint sign of blood just about to flow if she smiled too hard. She was a mess, and her surprise quickly turned to frustration. At herself or at him or at the birds annoyingly celebrating the new day, she didn't know.

 All she knew was she had to get out.

With a renewed look in her eyes, she turned away from the mirror, away from what she knew she looked like, and towards the door to the outside world. Weaving through the junk in her room in a familiar tango, she grabbed her phone and checked the time.