September 07, 2001
Some wounds don’t show.
Some silences hurt more than screams.
And sometimes, in the darkest nights, you realize it’s the unheard stories that weigh the most.
Sleep is supposed to heal, to repair.
But when the pain comes from within — from the heart or the mind — nothing can truly put the pieces back together.
I’ve been awake for three nights.
Three nights where the world slips away before my eyes.
Where every second feels like an eternity.
My thoughts fight each other,
my breathing quickens,
and the walls of my room close in like an invisible prison.
My name is Aïcha.
I’m sixteen years old.
I’m Dominican and French.
I live in Toronto.
But no one really knows what’s going on inside my head.
I’m here every day,
smiling, talking, pretending everything’s fine,
while everything quietly falls apart.
03:12 AM.
I stare at the white ceiling,
hearing the dull thud of my heart pounding in my temples.
My hands are shaking, and I don’t know why.
I’m suffocating without air.
I’m freezing and burning at the same time.
I’m scared of nothing — and everything.
Sometimes, I hear whispers.
Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me.
The shadows dance across my room,
and I can no longer tell what’s real.
Under my bed, a small bag waits for me, like an old acquaintance.
Silent. Deadly. Tempting.
I draw a line.
The taste is bitter, sharp — and strangely familiar.
I’m not trying to escape life, just the constant noise, the dull ache that never lets go.
My parents are asleep.
They think I’m just tired.
That it’s school stress, grades, social media pressure.
My mom thinks I’m “just a little tense.”
My dad believes I’m “too glued to my phone.”
They don’t know I’m drowning.
That every smile is a mask to hide the darkness inside.
Insomnia isn’t just the absence of sleep.
It’s a state where you become a stranger to yourself.
You cry when you should laugh.
You laugh when you should scream.
You become an invisible ghost, lost inside a body that no longer recognizes you.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.
All I know is that I’m cracking — crumbling —
bit by bit, until there’s nothing left.
> And you, do you know...
How many girls like me go unnoticed?
How many disappear without anyone realizing?
How many fight unarmed against the void?
Aïcha is one of them.
< Because sometimes, it’s not the visible wounds that kill.
But the ones no one sees.
If you think you know someone, look deeper.
Some silences scream louder than words.
