THE ART OF ALMOST WRITTEN IN THE DARK

Part I: The Ceiling

Isaiah stared at the ceiling, eyes fixed on the fan above his bed. The blades spun in a lazy circle, groaning like they didn’t want to be awake either. He wasn’t counting the cracks anymore he already knew them by heart. Six. Jagged. Sprawling like spiderwebs above his head.This was his nighttime ritual. Lie still. Think too much. Wonder if anyone else felt this tired without moving.His phone buzzed once. A notification. He didn’t check it. The room was dark except for a faint blue glow from the streetlight outside. And yet somehow, the silence was louder than the night itself. Not the comforting kind of silence but the kind that wraps around your neck like a scarf that’s too tight. You don’t choke, but you don’t breathe easy either. His thoughts looped like background static: school, expectations, failure, disappointment, pretending to be okay, wondering if anyone actually saw him or just the mask he wore so well. The mask was heavy. And it didn’t even fit right.

Part II: The Pressure

School had become more than just books and tests it was now a performance. Isaiah sat through classes feeling like a ghost wearing skin. Everyone seemed to move so confidently, answering questions like their brains were machines. He used to be like that. Sharp. Focused. A "top student," as his mom would say. But lately, something had shifted. His mind felt like it was moving through fog. He’d reread a page three times and still not remember what it said. Homework stared at him from the corner of his desk like a reminder of everything slipping. And his parents? They noticed the grades before they noticed him.

“You're smart. Just lazy.”

They didn’t understand that being tired and being lazy weren’t the same thing. Some mornings, his bones didn’t want to get up. Some nights, his brain wouldn’t shut down. The pressure to be something, to make something of himself, crushed him more than it motivated him.

So he lied.

He lied with smiles. He lied with “I’m fine.” He lied with the silence he gave when they asked nothing at all.

Part III: The Mask

When people asked him what he wanted to be after school, he said things that made them nod.

Doctor. Engineer. Lawyer.

He hated how easy those answers came out. Like scripts written by someone else. Safe words. Words that made adults smile and friends nod in approval.

But none of them were true.

The truth was tucked into his chest like a bruise sore every time he touched it.

He wanted to write. Not for fame. Not even for recognition. He just wanted to speak without using his voice. To leave something behind that outlived the silence he carried.But saying that out loud felt like rebellion. Like choosing poetry over practicality. Art over acceptance. And every time he thought about telling his parents, a part of him fractured.

How do you say you have a dream they can’t understand without breaking the version of you they built in their heads?

So instead, he kept it inside.

Part IV: The Letter

He reached for the drawer beside his bed. Inside, the brown journal sat waiting its cover worn soft, its pages uneven from pressure and ink.

This journal knew him better than most people.

He flipped to a blank page and let the pen glide.

Dear Universe

This is a letter to my future self merely a message in a bottle.

I am worthy. I am whole. I am enough, just as I am. I made it.

It’s been tough lately. My marks have been dropping. And expectations linger… like ghosts nobody owns...I wonder if I’ll be enough. Be successful. And still chase my dreams.

I’ll admit I had so many different dreams. And sometimes, I only said them because it’s what Mom and Dad expected to hear.

- Like, how do you tell your parents you want to be a writer?

-How do you say: "I have my own path," without shattering first?

It’s like a glass breaking even when you piece it back together, it never holds the same again. The cracks always show.

I’m not asking for miracles just a moment. A sign that I’m not invisible. That I exist for more than just breathing in pain and exhaling silence.

They said boys don’t cry. So I wrote.

They say boys don't break. So I shattered on the page.

I don’t know when the sadness started. Maybe the day I realized my parents were proud of grades, not me. Maybe the first time I laughed too loudly and got told to tone it down. Maybe the first night I couldn’t move sleep paralysis pinning me like a ghost inside my own body. Maybe I was always like this. Too soft. Too much. Too unsure of where I belonged. I never meant to become a writer. I was just trying to survive. But now the pen feels like a sword. The page feels like a friend....And I wonder... if I write enough, will I finally become someone worth remembering?

So here I am. Not perfect. Not whole. But real.

And maybe that’s enough. At least for tonight.

~Isaiah A boy with a story no one asked for, but I’m telling it anyway.

Part V: The Aftermath

When he finished, he didn’t feel lighter. But he felt real. The words sat heavy on the page, staring back at him like open wounds stitched with ink. He closed the journal slowly. Reverently. Like it held something holy. Writing didn’t fix the sadness, but it made the silence less lonely. It reminded him that his thoughts had shape. That his feelings had form. He lay back down, arms behind his head, staring once more at that creaky ceiling fan.

Part VI: The Morning That Follows

He knew what tomorrow would bring. Waking up late. Rushing to school. Smiling at people who didn’t really see him. Teachers handing out grades like measurements of worth. Friends who joked too loud and noticed too little. He’d sit in the back row and let the noise wash over him.

He’d pretend to be okay...And maybe—just maybe—he’d survive another day.

Part VII: The Shadow He Doesn’t Talk About

There was more he hadn’t written yet. The nights he couldn’t move, trapped in his own body. Awake but frozen. Screaming inside his head but unable to blink, to breathe, to be heard.

Sleep paralysis...It came like a thief. Some nights it stayed longer than it should have...He hadn’t written about that yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe never.

Part VIII: The Last Thought Before Sleep

The fan creaked again. Outside, the wind pressed against the window like a question without an answer.

Isaiah exhaled.

He wasn’t whole. He wasn’t healed. He wasn’t sure who he was becoming. But he was still here. Still breathing. Still writing. And maybe that was enough for now. Even if he didn’t know where the story was going. Even if the world never clapped. Even if no one ever read a single word.

He would still write.

Because somewhere in the silence, he knew:Almost is still alive.