Introduction
Introduction
For the version of me that didn’t make it, and the ones who still might.
This book wasn’t written for healing. It wasn’t written for closure or hope or redemption. It was written in the middle of the ache—during the sleepless nights, the numb mornings, the heavy silences that don’t end just because the sun rises.
Each piece is a timestamp of dissociation, of moments I couldn’t tell anyone about because I was too busy pretending I was fine. It’s not polished or poetic in the traditional sense. It’s just honest. Ugly honest. The kind of truth you whisper into pillows or parking lots or bathroom tiles.
You won’t find resolutions here. You’ll find flickers—of despair, of confusion, of the slow unraveling that happens when you’re alive but not living. This collection is not a cry for help. It’s a record of what it feels like when help doesn’t feel real. When love doesn’t reach you. When even your own reflection looks like a stranger.
So if you’re here, reading this—maybe something in you knows this weight. Maybe something in you is still holding on, even if you don’t know why. I won’t promise that it gets better. But I will say: you’re not the only one standing in the road, blinking at headlights.
And sometimes, just knowing that is something.
