I skip breakfast.
On purpose.
Not because I'm not hungry.
I am.
But hunger is the only thing I still get to choose.
The only thing that feels like mine.
My decision.
My boundaries.
My rebellion.
Lunch comes.
I push it around on my tray like a painter pretending her brush is busy.
The cafeteria smells like burnt cheese and loud opinions.
It's all heat and echo and people trying to prove they exist.
I keep my eyes on my apple slices.
Touch none of them.
Tear one into tiny pieces with my nails instead.
It's something to do with my hands.
Something that feels almost like control.
Luca passes my table.
Our eyes meet.
He smiles—
hesitant,
soft,
waiting.
Like he's not sure if he's still allowed.
I look away.
I don't sit with him.
I haven't in days.
And he hasn't asked why.
By evening, I feel hollow.
Which is better than hurting.
Hollow is clean.
Hollow means nothing's bleeding.
Hollow means control.
India texts:
"You're quiet. Too quiet. Say something chaotic."
I stare at the screen.
Thumb hovering.
No words come.
Not even fake ones.
I close the app.
Egypt sends a meme of a cat knocking over a cup with "Me handling emotions" written above it.
I heart it, but I don't laugh.
Not really.
Dinner happens around me at home.
Mama makes stew.
Bear makes a mess.
Auggie offers me a bite of yam shaped like Texas.
I shake my head.
Say I ate already.
Lie through my teeth.
My stomach twists.
But I ignore it.
Pain is a language I've learned to speak fluently.
Later, I sit on my bed with my sketchpad.
I draw hands.
Tangled.
Reaching.
Failing.
I write underneath:
"I told him I loved him. He gave me silence."
Then I rip the page out and shove it in the trash.
Because seeing it on paper makes it too real.
The ache gets worse around 9 p.m.
It wraps around my chest like barbed wire.
I stand.
Pace.
Sit again.
Everything feels itchy.
Wrong.
Too much.
Too loud.
Too him.
His face, his voice, the way he said "we don't have to rush" like that made it better.
Like he didn't just confirm the worst thing I fear:
That no one could ever love me back.
Not really.
Not the way I do.
Not with all the messy, needy, overwhelming parts.
I go to the bathroom.
Lock the door.
Sit on the floor with my knees to my chest and breathe through the shaking.
"You're fine."
"You're dramatic."
"Stop needing so much."
"Stop being so much."
I stare at my reflection.
Pale.
Exhausted.
Eyes sunken.
Ribs more visible than they used to be.
A part of me says, Good.
Another part says, Eat something before you pass out.
I ignore both.
I rest my head on my arm, just for a second.
The tile is cold against my skin.
And it feels grounding.
For a moment.
Until it doesn't.
I wake up to tile against my cheek.
Disoriented.
Cold.
There's blood in my mouth.
I must've bitten my lip when I fell.
My head pounds.
Everything spins.
My arms won't hold me up.
And for the first time since the field trip…
I'm scared.
Not the kind of scared that makes you run.
The kind that freezes you in place.
The kind that makes the silence louder than it's ever been.
Mama's voice is muffled through the door.
"Senna?"
I try to respond.
Nothing comes out.
There's banging.
Then the door swings open.
A scream.
Bear crying.
Auggie's tiny hands tugging at my sleeve.
I'm on the floor.
And all I can think is:
He didn't love me back.
And now I'm not even here enough to care.
They carry me to the car.
Mama is crying.
Bear is clinging to her.
My head rests against the window, and I watch the streetlights smear like tears across the glass.
I want to say something.
Anything.
But my mouth won't open.
I want to tell her it's not her fault.
I want to tell someone how tired I am of being too much and never enough at the same time.
But all I do is close my eyes.
And somewhere between the hospital parking lot and the nurse's voice,
I start to disappear.
Not die.
Not exactly.
But fade.
Into a version of me that doesn't reach too hard.
Doesn't want too loud.
Doesn't love so openly.
Because when I did—
He gave me silence.
And I mistook it for shelter.