The once rhythmic beat of my heart grew erratic, fast one moment and agonizingly slow the next. It felt like my very existence was revolting against me. Each breath I took was shallow, weak, as if my lungs had forgotten how to draw in air. The anxiety clawed at my throat, a silent scream that refused to leave my lips. When the tears came, they were sudden and overwhelming. They streaked down my face, hot and unrelenting, leaving me gasping for air. I hated crying—it felt like admitting defeat—but no matter how much I tried to hold it back, the dam would always break. The fear, the loneliness, the inevitability of it all—it was too much for one person to carry. Even in those moments, I found myself wishing. Wishing that someone would notice, that someone would care. But the world around me kept turning, oblivious to my pain. And so, I sat there, clutching my cup of cold coffee, staring at the rain-streaked window, waiting for the end to come.
