You know it’s getting bad
when the walls of a classroom
begin to close in like a fist.
The clock keeps ticking-
cruel, ordinary, indifferent-
while your chest forgets how to breathe.
The air turns to glass in your lungs.
Your hands betray you first,
trembling like leaves
in a storm no one else can see.
You try to keep your head down.
You try to swallow the ocean rising in your throat.
But grief is louder than pencils scratching paper.
It spills.
It cracks.
It breaks you open in rows of desks
under fluorescent lights.
She kneels in front of you-
soft voice, careful eyes-
asking the question you cannot answer.
Are you okay? What happened?
Her hand reaches for yours
because you are shaking so hard
you look like you might disappear.
“What happened?” she asks again.
And all you can give her
is a lie shaped like survival:
“I don’t know.
Don’t worry.
I’m okay.”
Even though you are not.
Even though you are unraveling
thread by fragile thread.
She pulls you into the hallway
where the world is quieter
but your heart is not.
She wraps her arms around you
like she is trying to hold
all the pieces in place.
You want to tell her.
God, you want to tell her.
About the nights that feel endless.
About the weight that lives in your chest.
About how tired you are
of pretending.
But the words-
they freeze halfway to your mouth,
heavy as stones.
You choke on them instead.
She tells you to stay outside a little longer,
to breathe, to calm down.
Kindness in her voice.
Patience in her eyes.
And somehow
that hurts the most.
Because when you walk back in,
every head turns.
Every whisper slices.
Laughter crawls across the room
like something alive.
You sit down with tear-stained cheeks
and try to fold yourself smaller,
smaller,
small enough
to vanish between the lines of your notebook.
But the crying won’t stop.
It has found its own rhythm now.
At the end of class, she asks you to stay.
Her concern is real.
It is warm.
It is undeserved-
that’s what you tell yourself.
You realize how kind she is.
How safe she might be.
And still-
you gather your pain like contraband,
hide it back under your ribs,
zip your mouth shut,
nod politely,
thank her softly.
Because suffering alone
feels easier
than letting someone see
how deep the cracks go.
So you walk out carrying it all again-
the shaking,
the silence,
the unsaid.
And the worst part is not
that they laughed.
It’s that someone cared
and you still chose
to drown quietly
where no one could reach you.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 7:20 AM UTC
You know it’s getting bad
when the walls of a classroom
begin to close in like a fist.
The clock keeps ticking-
cruel, ordinary, indifferent-
while your chest forgets how to breathe.
The air turns to glass in your lungs.
Your hands betray you first,
trembling like leaves
in a storm no one else can see.
You try to keep your head down.
You try to swallow the ocean rising in your throat.
But grief is louder than pencils scratching paper.
It spills.
It cracks.
It breaks you open in rows of desks
under fluorescent lights.
She kneels in front of you-
soft voice, careful eyes-
asking the question you cannot answer.
Are you okay? What happened?
Her hand reaches for yours
because you are shaking so hard
you look like you might disappear.
“What happened?” she asks again.
And all you can give her
is a lie shaped like survival:
“I don’t know.
Don’t worry.
I’m okay.”
Even though you are not.
Even though you are unraveling
thread by fragile thread.
She pulls you into the hallway
where the world is quieter
but your heart is not.
She wraps her arms around you
like she is trying to hold
all the pieces in place.
You want to tell her.
God, you want to tell her.
About the nights that feel endless.
About the weight that lives in your chest.
About how tired you are
of pretending.
But the words-
they freeze halfway to your mouth,
heavy as stones.
You choke on them instead.
She tells you to stay outside a little longer,
to breathe, to calm down.
Kindness in her voice.
Patience in her eyes.
And somehow
that hurts the most.
Because when you walk back in,
every head turns.
Every whisper slices.
Laughter crawls across the room
like something alive.
You sit down with tear-stained cheeks
and try to fold yourself smaller,
smaller,
small enough
to vanish between the lines of your notebook.
But the crying won’t stop.
It has found its own rhythm now.
At the end of class, she asks you to stay.
Her concern is real.
It is warm.
It is undeserved-
that’s what you tell yourself.
You realize how kind she is.
How safe she might be.
And still-
you gather your pain like contraband,
hide it back under your ribs,
zip your mouth shut,
nod politely,
thank her softly.
Because suffering alone
feels easier
than letting someone see
how deep the cracks go.
So you walk out carrying it all again-
the shaking,
the silence,
the unsaid.
And the worst part is not
that they laughed.
It’s that someone cared
and you still chose
to drown quietly
where no one could reach you.