Story cover for Phronemophobia by KateSelman
Phronemophobia
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  • WpView
    Reads 58
  • WpVote
    Votes 1
  • WpPart
    Parts 3
  • WpHistory
    Time <5 mins
Ongoing, First published Jan 10, 2017
Phronemophobia, the fear of thinking. The fear of thinking when things are too quiet, or the fear of thinking when times are too loud. The fear of taking actions needed. The fear of being your own self.

You kidnapped me unintentionally. You strangled me metaphoriclly. The friendship we had were those sad poems we read and cried over. We were obsessed with a concepts of an aesthetic of depression, sex, and drugs. We were our own aesthetic. In a way we still are, but this time you are angry, and I'm uninterested. There's a difference between fighting and the last straw. I'm there, and you are using this separation of friends as an attention getter. One day the yelling and tears won't work, and you will be lost without them. One day the high stress level won't be, and you'll find your "perfect" in causing drama. Thank you, for teaching me that it's okay to drift away.
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Invisible String  by Autumn_Girl_Writes
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In the dimly lit waiting room of the therapist's office, a young woman sits with tense shoulders and determined eyes. She's just come out of her session-relieved, but still tangled in a quiet storm. She's a survivor of a traumatic kidnapping, and it shows-not in scars, but in the way she carries herself. Small in stature, yes, but you can feel the simmering anger beneath her skin, forged by everything she's been through and everything no one helped her fix. Across the room, another person waits. Quieter. Equally haunted. She fidgets, eyes darting, unable to stay still for long. There's history in her posture-years of growing up around violence, chaos, and never feeling safe. Her ADHD doesn't help; her mind's a pinball machine of thoughts, never landing, always spinning. When the first woman rises to leave, their eyes meet. Just for a second. Long enough to say everything words can't. "He's not really helping us, is he?" she murmurs under her breath. The other just nods. Silent. Knowing. Maybe they weren't supposed to meet again. But fate-messy, unpredictable fate-had other plans. Another day. Another place. Same ache in their bones. Something soft begins to grow between them. Tentative. Delicate. Real. They don't pretend it'll be easy, but in each other, they spot the flicker of something rare: hope. The kind that dares to whisper of healing, of peace, maybe even of love. "Even if we've only known each other a few months, it feels like I could tell you anything. Everything. From my darkest secrets to the dumbest memes. From late-night thoughts to chaotic brain farts. I don't know-It just feels right." -Clementine Sousa
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