haunted.

hope

TW- depression

Virat sat alone at his desk, the dim light from the single lamp casting long shadows across the room. His hands trembled as he clutched the pen, the nightmare from earlier still gnawing at his mind. The silence of the house was suffocating, amplifying the echo of his guardian's cruel voice in his head.

He opened his notebook, the pages already marred with frantic scribbles and crossed-out words. He began writing with a desperate urgency.

"I AM NOT MAD"
The words stared back at him, but they felt hollow, meaningless. He angrily crossed them out.

"I AM NOT MAD"
His hand moved mechanically, the pen scratching against the paper as he repeated the phrase over and over.

"I AM NOT MAD"
Each time he wrote it, a flood of memories surged through him—his guardian's sneering face, the harsh words, the stinging blows.

"I AM NOT MAD"
The words blurred together, the letters becoming more frantic, more desperate.

"I AM NOT MAD"
His hand ached, but he couldn't stop. He needed to believe it, to convince himself that he wasn't losing his mind.

"I AM NOT MAD"
But with every iteration, doubt crept in, and he angrily crossed it out.

"I AM NOT MAD"
The pages filled with the same phrase, the same desperate attempt to reclaim his sanity.

"I AM NOT MAD"
His eyes burned with unshed tears, the weight of his trauma pressing down on him like a physical burden.

"I AM NOT MAD"
The notebook became a battlefield, each line a struggle against the darkness that threatened to consume him.

"I AM NOT MAD"
2052 times. He wrote it 2052 times.

The room seemed to close in on him, the silence amplifying his anguish. Each scratch of the pen felt like a scream in the void, a cry for help that no one could hear.

"I AM NOT MAD"
The pages were filled with the words, each one crossed out in frustration and despair. His breath hitched, his heart heavy with the weight of his isolation.

He glanced at his phone, hoping to see a message from Rohit, but the screen was blank. Rohit was away, and the emptiness of the house was a cruel reminder of how alone he felt.

The memories of his guardian's abuse were relentless, each one sharper and more painful than the last. He remembered the nights spent cleaning the orphanage, the brutal punishments, the endless litany of insults. The man's voice echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of his supposed worthlessness.

Virat dropped the pen, his hand cramping from the effort. He stared at the pages, filled with the same phrase, each one a testament to his struggle. The words mocked him, a cruel reminder of his fragile state.

He closed the notebook, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The darkness of the room seemed to press in on him, the silence suffocating. He felt a profound sense of despair, the weight of his trauma too much to bear.

With no one to turn to, no comforting presence to hold him, Virat curled up on the floor, his body wracked with sobs. The loneliness was overwhelming, the pain of his past inescapable.

Virat sat at his desk, the dim light casting long, eerie shadows around him. The silence of the house was deafening, amplifying the turmoil within his mind. His hands shook as he picked up the pen, his heart heavy with despair. He opened a fresh page in his notebook, tears blurring his vision as he began to write.

"Dear Rohit,"

The words felt like lead, each letter a weight dragging him further into his darkness. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his trembling hand.