The Things I Don’t Say Out Loud

Trigger Warning : Suicide.

I wake up before my alarm because my brain doesn’t know how to sleep in anymore. It’s always sprinting toward something. Regret, maybe? Or dread.

I sit for an hour in the dark, hoping I’ll feel something. I don’t.

Breakfast is a cup of tea. I think about choking something down later for lunch, even if I’m not hungry. I haven’t really been hungry in months. But eating makes people less suspicious. That’s the trick, right?

My mom asks me to pick up some stuff from the store. I nod. She doesn’t notice I haven’t looked her in the eyes in three weeks.

In the car, I scream with the music up. Not words. Just sound. Ugly noise that no one else will hear. I pull into the parking lot, fix my makeup and hair in the rearview mirror like nothing happened, and I walk in.

The store is too bright. Too cheerful. I stand in the beauty aisle staring at the razors for too long. Not because I need them. But because they feel familiar. Part of me still aches for that kind of control.

A little girl skips past me, holding her mom’s hand. I wonder what age I stopped feeling safe.

Someone from work passes by. We do the fake smile, the “hey, how are you?” script. I say “good,” like always. I’ve said it so much it rolls off my tongue without a second thought.

At checkout, the cashier tells me to have a beautiful day. I almost laugh.

When I get home, I go straight to my room and lock the door. Sit on the floor. Just sit. For a long time. Like if I don’t move, the thoughts won’t catch me.

There are stories I’ll never tell. People I’ll never name. Nights I’ll pretend didn’t happen.

But they’re all still here, living under my skin.

It’s almost midnight. The house is quiet in the way it only is when everyone is asleep and still. The heat clicks on, then off again. The house makes settling noises like bones cracking.

I open the window. The air is sharp, even in summer. I sit on the ledge, feet tucked up, looking out at the street. A few cars pass.

I don't know what I’m waiting for. Maybe nothing. Maybe for the night to swallow me whole.

The sky looks so open, and I feel so small. There’s something strange about how normal everything is. Like the world forgot that something terrible happened. Like I was never touched. Never hurt. Like I don't even exist.

My phone lights up on the windowsill. A message from someone. I don’t even bother to read it or see who its from. I just watch the screen go black again.

Some nights, I think about saying it out loud. Just once. Just to see how it sounds to say “I’m not okay.” But it always dies in my throat. There’s no one around I can tell anyway. And even if there was someone, what then? What would they do with it? People don’t know what to do with pain, especially this type of pain.

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. There are cracks up there I never noticed before. Tiny ones. Maybe they were always there. Maybe I just never looked long enough.

I close my eyes. Not to sleep. Just to rest from seeing everything.

The next day, I see someone who looks like him.

It’s not him. I know it isn’t. But my stomach drops anyway, like it’s remembering something my brain tries not to. He’s just standing there scrolling his phone, but my legs freeze in place like my feet have suddenly become bricks.

I turn around and walk the other way. Fast. I don’t stop until I’m in my car with my fists pressed into my eyes.

I stay there for a long time.

As I drive home, I pass the liquor store on Main. I think about going in.

I haven’t in months. I told myself I wouldn’t. But it’s still there. I know that I could. That it would make everything quieter, for a while.

Instead, I keep driving.

I realize I need help. So I decide to give life one last try. I message one of my only friends and ask if we can meet up.

My friend is the kind of person who remembers everyone’s birthday. Always cheery. Always asking how your weekend was, even if she doesn’t really care about the answer.

We’re not exactly close, but she’s the only person I have in my life right now.

We meet up and start discussing trivial things.

She’s scrolling through her phone, telling me about her new roommate and some guy she’s seeing. I nod along.

Then I hear myself say, “Do you ever feel like you’re just... floating through everything?”

She looks up, confused. “Like zoning out?”

“Kind of,” I say, and I almost stop there. But then, softer: “Like your body’s here, but you’re not.”

She laughs a little. Not mean, just surprised. “Wow. That’s deep."

I don’t say anything.

She puts her phone down. “I mean, yeah, I guess I get that. I think everyone’s kind of disassociating lately. The world’s a mess, right?”

She says it with a smile, like it’s a joke. Like it’s normal.

“Maybe you just need to get out more,” she adds. “Or I swear by journaling when I get in a weird headspace. Maybe you can even try meditation.”

She chuckles, like she’s said something wise. Or helpful.

I force a small smile. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll try that.”

She starts scrolling again. The moment is over.

That night, I can’t stop shaking.

Nothing happened, technically. Just a conversation. It was someone trying to help in the wrong language. Just another dismissal, wrapped in sunshine.

But something inside me buckled under it. I tried opening up and getting help, but I failed once again, like I fail at everything else in my life.

I don’t cry. I just feel full. Like my chest is going to split open. Like all the memories are rising up at once. His hand, their voices, the ache in my legs, the mirror, the razor, the silence.

I rip a piece of paper from my journal. Write down everything I can’t say out loud.

Names. Dates. Things I still pretend didn’t happen.

I fold it up. Hold it tight in my hand.

Then, slowly, I tear it into pieces. Tiny pieces. Let them fall like snow over the ground.

I lay on the floor.

And stare at the ceiling again. Same cracks. Same silence.

I don’t remember deciding.

Not exactly.

It’s not a dramatic moment. No letter. No music playing. Just... a stillness. A deep, chilling quiet. The kind that only comes after you've stopped trying to fight it.

The house is asleep again. The same settling noises. The hum of the fridge. I walk barefoot down the hall, barely feeling the cold under my feet.

In the bathroom, I flip on the light. Stare at myself in the mirror. The bags under my eyes. The dried mascara. The way my mouth always looks like it’s about to say something but never does.

I open the cabinet. Stare at the orange bottle. I remember when it was prescribed for panic attacks. I remember counting them once, just to know how many were left.

My hand doesn’t shake when I pick it up. That scares me a little. How calm I am.

I sit down on the edge of the tub. Not crying. Not shaking. Just tired.

So, so tired.

I turn the bottle in my hands. Read the warning label. “Do not operate heavy machinery. May cause drowsiness.”

I think about who would find me. What they would say. Whether anyone would believe it wasn’t an accident.

I think about the girls who always laughed at me. My friend that tried to help. The boy who took everything from me,

I think about the things no one ever knew.

The parts of my story that never made it into words.

The lights stay on for a while.

Then, at some point, they go off.