Solace (Sabrina Carpenter/Olivia Rodrigo/ YOU)

Is it?

'Is today a good day to die?'

That question lingers in my mind the moment I jolt awake, heart racing, from what can barely be called sleep. The darkness outside feels thick, pressing against the windows, and my pulse is the only rhythm that breaks the silence. I ask myself this every morning, though "morning" has lost its meaning.

Sixty fragile minutes of uneasy rest. Sleep has become a distant memory, like a whisper lost in the wind, and yet here I am, still hoping—still wondering if today is the day when something will change. Something... will give.

Or maybe today is the day that I finally do it..

The thought creeps in as naturally as the shadows that gather in the corners of my room, thick and heavy. I can almost taste the bitterness of it, sharp like cold metal on the tongue. It isn't an unfamiliar idea; it has lingered at the edges of my mind for longer than I care to admit. But today, it feels different—closer, more tangible, as if the weight of it could drag me under at any moment.

Maybe today is the day I stop fighting, stop pretending. Maybe today is the day I let the darkness win..

I sit up from the king-size bed, the sheets twisted and cold beneath me, and rub my temples, trying to ease the dull ache that's already setting in. My body feels heavy, like I'm dragging myself through quicksand, but I force my hand to reach for the phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up, casting a faint glow in the darkened room as I scroll through the notifications. Messages, emails, reminders—I scan them, my eyes moving over each one, searching for something important, something that might make this day feel less empty. But it's the usual noise, nothing pressing, nothing to distract me from the thoughts circling my mind.

Like I said, sleep has been a distant memory. It feels like an old photograph, faded and crumpled, something I can see but never quite touch. And, strangely enough, I've come to accept it. I've made peace with the idea that this sleeplessness—this endless, suffocating exhaustion—is some sort of punishment. A sentence I'm serving for something horrible I did long ago, something so unspeakable that even the idea of forgiveness feels absurd.

I would never, in my life, imagine that I could forgive myself. Not for this. Not for the kind of mistake that lodges itself in your bones and lingers in your blood. I carry it like a shadow, and maybe this lack of sleep is its way of making sure I never forget.

I stand up, the weight of the night still clinging to me, and force myself to move. My feet hit the cold floor, grounding me in the silence of the room. The routine is mechanical by now—getting ready for the day like it actually matters. I walk to the mirror, catching a glimpse of myself as I pull on clothes, though the reflection barely feels like mine anymore. The motions are there, but the purpose feels lost. Still, I go through the steps, because it's what I do. It's all I can do.
———

I'm at the office now, eagerly waiting for a meeting with my glass supplier. The atmosphere buzzes with activity, the sound of laughter and conversation mixing with the clatter of keyboards. I glance around my multi-story building, a space I poured my heart into since I opened it at just 19. It's incredible to see how far it has come over the years, thriving and bustling with creativity.

I groan as I shift my chair, trying to find a comfortable position, but it's like a game of hide and seek—just when I think I've found relief, it flares up again.

All this success, and yet here I am, feeling like my back pain is winning. It's a constant reminder that even amidst the hustle and bustle, my body sometimes feels like it's running its own race.

I swear, one day, this back is going to be the death of me.

I was pulled from my thoughts when I heard a soft throat-clearing, the kind that barely registered but somehow felt urgent in the silence.