𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

Your Honor, it's not what it seems.

Not content with real feelings, she anxiously imposes imagining them.

The conversation is dying, and I don't know first aid. I broke the glass of words in case of emergency, but they're all tired. I'm panicking because of it and because the glass cut me. The siren is close, I swear it's not what it seems. The blood in my mouth is because the conversation bit me when I tried to give it mouth-to-mouth. The conversation looks beaten, but it's not what it seems. I'm innocent. I don't want to be a prisoner of my own words. Your Honor, I'm serious. It's not what it seems.

I look around for help, but other people's words are far away, I can't reach them. My hands shake as I try to gather the broken words lying on the ground like shards of glass reflecting the chaos that's happening. Every time I try to pick one up, it cuts me deeper. It's not what it seems, but no one is listening.

The siren is getting closer. I feel the guilt crushing me, even though I know I'm not guilty. I just tried to save the conversation. I didn't know it was so hurt. I didn't know my efforts to revive it would fail. Your Honor, it's not what it seems. The blood in my mouth and the broken words... I don't know how to explain what happened. I'm trapped in a silence that's chasing me, tangled in my failed attempt to speak.

The judge looks at me coldly, the walls echo what I couldn't say. My tongue feels heavy. The words that once helped me now hurt me. I can't stop them. I don't want to be a prisoner of this misunderstanding. I don't want my words to condemn me. But here I am, surrounded by what's left of me, with no one understanding me. The conversation lies still at my feet. The siren keeps sounding. And it's too late.

There's a knock at the door, but I don't answer until night falls, and I go to my room. The sirens keep blaring, but there's no one to ask, "How are you?" I lie down and try to calm my breath. But there's someone else in the room. There's a man in the room. I can feel the weight of his gaze even in the darkness. He steps forward slowly, coming closer to me. His presence makes me tremble. I can feel his gaze, heavy, filled with questions I don't want to answer. I don't know if this is real or if I've just imagined it, created it in the middle of my desperation.

But his eyes... Are they his or are they mine? Something moves. Ah, no. It's me, every beat of my heart echoing in my ears. Even though I'm trapped in this kind of paralysis, there's something in his expression that intrigues me. What does he want from me? The broken girl who hasn't learned to stand up yet? I try to hide my fear, but every movement he makes reminds me that I'm just a disguise protecting me from the world, from my own insecurities. The siren has stopped, but the echo of what was still rings in my mind, like an insistent whisper.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice soft as a thread. There's something in his tone that makes me feel a little safer, like he really cares. But the words get stuck in my throat, and the truth feels too heavy to carry at this moment. I clutch the fabric as if it were a shield against vulnerability. "It's not what it seems," I want to say, but silence becomes my only companion. My thoughts turn against me, reminding me of every lost conversation, every opportunity that slipped through my fingers. "I'm sorry," he repeats, and though it sounds empty, there's a spark of sincerity that forces me to look at him again.

Maybe he's not a monster in the dark, but a lost soul also looking for his way. My mind faces a dilemma: Should I let him touch me? Suddenly, the distance between us feels real, and even though my instinct tells me to move away, something inside me longs for that connection. So I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the leap, the risk of exposing myself. "I'm not broken," I whisper, more to myself than to him. "I'm just... in process." At that moment, the man stops, as if my words have reached him in some way. The soft moonlight enters through the window, illuminating his features, and for the first time, I see a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. The darkness between us starts to fade, and my heart beats hard, as if it knows this could be the moment for a new beginning.

The siren is still off, but I can still feel its pulse in my ears. Maybe I was the one who made it sound, or maybe it was the conversation that called it. But I doubt my confession.

He moves a little closer and touches me, and I shake violently. He steps back, and I see how he begins to retreat. Luckily, I managed to read his intentions, and quickly, before the man turns on the light, I turn back into a pile of clothes.

It's not what it seems, I repeat. But no one listens. But if someone does listen, no, it is, what, it, seems.

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