The Art of Healing

I spend most of my time staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. It's an odd silence.

I haven't written in days. Not since I tried to make sense of everything and failed. Not since I tried to write about it without crying.

Fynn would have understood. That's the lie I tell myself.

Before he moved on and left me behind. Before he found new friends and forgot the girl I used to be. He would have understood then, but now?

I drag my fingers across the keyboard, typing something that isn't even a sentence. Part of me wants to finish it, but the words twist in my throat.

It wasn't my fault.

I keep repeating it, but I don't even know if I believe it anymore.

My parents don't believe me either.

They want to move on like it's something that can disappear with a few pills and a long talk. But no one gets it. Not the way I do. Not the way my mind replays every damn detail like I could change the ending but I can't.

I slam the laptop down on the desk. My fingers feel numb. My body feels numb.

I never screamed. Never fought back. I bury it in my writing, in characters who get the endings I'll never have.

But right now, I'm stuck in the worst kind of silence.

Disclaimer: All events are fictional, and created to explore personal struggle, recovery, and strength. The author has not experienced these events and does not seek to minimize their gravity. Please approach this as a work of fiction.

If this content feels too heavy, it's okay to step away. Your well-being comes first. Take a break, breathe. Self-care is about honoring your limits and taking the time you need.