The girl who waited

Nights were the hardest.

During the day, at least there were distractions—classes, noise, people moving around, even if they didn't notice her. But at night, when the world fell silent, the thoughts crept in.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. Each second felt like a reminder of how long she had been waiting—for someone to check on her, for someone to care. But no one did.

Her phone lay beside her, untouched. No messages, no missed calls. It had been weeks since anyone had reached out. Once, she had counted the number of days since she last had a real conversation. She stopped counting after thirty.

She tried to sleep, but her mind refused to rest.

Instead, memories played like an old film—moments when she was happy, when laughter came easily. The way she used to run up to her parents, excited to tell them about her day. The way her friends used to call her first whenever they made plans. The way she used to feel like she belonged.

Now, all of it felt like a dream that never really happened.

She turned on her side, hugging a pillow as if it could replace the warmth she had lost. She thought about getting up, going outside, forcing a conversation with someone. But what would she even say?

They wouldn't understand.

They would probably just say, "You're overthinking."

Or worse, "Everyone feels like that sometimes, it's normal."

But this didn't feel normal.

Normal wasn't feeling like a stranger in your own home.

Normal wasn't watching people forget you while you were still there.

Normal wasn't waking up every day with the same heavy feeling in your chest.

She closed her eyes, wishing for the morning to come faster, even though she knew it wouldn't change anything. Because tomorrow would be just like today.

Silent. Empty.

And unnoticed.