Sometimes, my mind drifts
without asking for permission.
It hitchhikes on silence
and takes me far from myself.

It flies through winding paths,
where doubts reside,
the pressures I created,
the mistakes I haven’t even made
but already condemn myself for.

I think of failure before the beginning,
of mistakes before the attempt,
and fear...
oh, fear whispers:
"what if nothing makes sense?"

I’ve thought about disappearing.
Not out of malice,
but out of exhaustion.
For thinking that maybe,
in the void, there might be peace.

But then, they appear —
the faces that shaped my heart:
my mother, with teary eyes;
my siblings, silently searching
for a hug that wouldn’t come;
her — the one I dreamed a “we” with;
my friends, trying to understand
what I never said.

Would it hurt?
Would it pass?
Would someone carry me in their heart
as a wound that never heals?

Maybe yes.
Maybe no.
But thinking of them
makes me rethink myself.

Because, in the end,
maybe there’s still time
to overcome the darkness.
To undo others’ expectations
and build my own.

To fail, fall, and get back up,
to breathe deeply
and say:
“I’m trying.”

To love,
to build something of my own,
to care the way I was cared for.

And if I’m to leave,
let it be from fear.
If something must die,
let it be what keeps me from living.