What If (What if I loved you)

Chapter 8

WARNING: (SELF HARM)

This chapter may trigger some people. It highlights the difficulty of anxiety and moments of self arms are present. If you are young or are triggered by this kind of subject, I advise you to go on to the next chapter.

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"The doctor asks me if I've (censored)
I answered without any hesitation that I have" -Agust D - 마지막 (The Last)

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As I stand here, alone in the midnight embrace of Han River, my heart feels like a complex mosaic of emotions. The glimmering city lights across the water signify not just a dream realized but also a future uncertain. The excitement of having become the translator of my Idols, that are now my friends, courses through me like an electric current, a vivid reminder of how far I've come. But amidst the thrill, there's a searing fear, a shadow cast by the unknown chapters that await. It's a peculiar sensation, for while I ventured far from my life in London, leaving behind the traumatic scars that marked my past, there's a nostalgic ache for the place that shaped me, a discomfort in missing the very things I ran from. As I gaze at Han River, I'm caught in a sea of emotions, a blend of hope and trepidation, excitement and melancholy...

Here, I suddenly wander, ensnared within the enigma of my own existence. The return feels like a cruel twist of fate, a resurgence of the suffocating darkness I thought I had escaped. It's a relapse, a relentless grip of depression that clenches tighter with every step, a vice around my heart, constricting my very breath. The city lights twinkle, a patchwork of distant lives, and yet, despite their glow, I'm enveloped in an impenetrable isolation. There's a paradox in having people to count on, surrounded by their presence, and yet feeling as if I'm the lone inhabitant of a desolate universe.

The weight of my own inadequacy presses heavily upon me, an unrelenting gravity pulling me further into the abyss. These thoughts, this inexplicable sadness, it's as if my mind has become a battleground, and I'm both the attacker and the defender, a prisoner of my own war. And in the midst of this internal chaos, I find myself doubting the validity of my pain. How could they ever understand? How could anyone see me for the shattered mess I am when I can't even bear to look at myself? It's a cruel irony, wishing for appreciation and acceptance while simultaneously despising every fiber of my being.

I've always felt things more intensely than others; a hypersensitivity that renders me raw in a world that often feels callous. A word, a glance, a gesture; they're like daggers, each piercing deep into my fragile heart. Every interaction is a minefield, a risk of shattering into a thousand shards with just a misplaced sentiment. It's exhausting, being so acutely attuned to the emotional undercurrents that most overlook. It's as if I've been cursed with an amplified spectrum of feelings, and it's driving me crasy.

The people around me, they have their own lives, their own struggles, their own smiles that mask their own pain. How could I burden them with my own darkness? How could I expect them to comprehend the storm raging within me when I can't even make sense of it myself? They have their own battles, their own wars, and I'm just a mere casualty of my own mind. They have their own narratives, their own stories, and mine feels like an insignificant footnote, written in invisible ink.

I long for respite, for my brain to cease its relentless churning of thoughts. If only there was a switch to shut it off, to silence the endless barrage of self-loathing and doubt. To be like the others, to exist in the simplicity of the moment without the constant nagging of my own inadequacy. To be free from this weight that chains me to the shadows. I crave normality, the ability to experience joy without skepticism, to believe in my worth without hesitation. But how can I, when every material of my being is convinced of the opposite?