Chapter 29: "Whispers Behind the Silence"
Zariah didn't open the door.
She didn't answer her mother's voice.
She waited until the sound of footsteps faded down the hall and the soft click of the closing door signaled that everything was back to normal—back to silence, back to pretending.
She sat on the edge of her bed for what felt like hours.
Her hand hovered over the drawer again. Just one pull. That's all it would take. Just one slice. Just enough to feel something.
But instead, she picked up her phone.
She didn't message Jasmine.
She didn't scroll.
She just stared at the screen, her own reflection faint in the black glass. Her hollow eyes. Her cracked lips. The shadow of who she used to be.
She typed: I don't think I can keep doing this.
Then deleted it.
Then typed: Promise me you won't hate me if I disappear.
Then deleted that too.
Eventually, she turned the phone off and set it down. She crawled under the blanket—not because she was cold, but because she wanted the world to disappear.
That night, her dreams were nightmares. Flashing lights. Screaming. The feeling of drowning in air. Of running with no legs.
She woke up gasping. Heart pounding. Sweating through her pajamas.
It was 3:12 a.m.
And she felt like dying.
The next morning, she wore long sleeves again. Not because of the weather—but because of the fresh red lines beneath.
Her mom was in the kitchen but said nothing.
Just handed her toast and coffee like she hadn't spent the past week behind a locked door.
Zariah took the toast.
Didn't eat it.
At school, Jasmine noticed immediately.
"You're worse today," she whispered in the hallway. "I can feel it."
Zariah forced a smile. "I'm fine."
Jasmine narrowed her eyes. "Liar."
Zariah blinked back sudden tears. "Don't ask questions today. Please."
Jasmine didn't respond. But she reached out and held Zariah's hand—tight, firm, warm.
Zariah held on like it was the last thing tethering her to Earth.
The day dragged. Her vision blurred. Words from the teacher became meaningless noise.
But Jasmine stayed close.
Even during lunch, when Zariah just sat there, staring at her food again, Jasmine didn't say a word. She just slid her own untouched granola bar in front of her, like a silent offering.
That night, Zariah stood in the shower until the water ran cold. She watched it swirl around the drain, red-tinged.
Still no sound.
Still no screaming.
Still numb.
She got out. Dried off. Looked in the mirror.
"I don't even know who I am anymore."
Then she whispered the words again—the ones she was too afraid to send.
"Promise me you won't hate me if I disappear."