Even When I'm Loved

“Are you there, God? It’s me…”

I trail off.

Is this how you’re supposed to start these?

A dry, awkward laugh scrapes its way out of my throat.

“It’s been years since I’ve said anything to you.”

That doesn’t sound right either.

What am I even doing here? It’s late. An unnatural stillness fills the air, like the room itself is holding its breath. I’m on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, the cold tiles pressing into my bare skin.

I glance down. The cut is still bleeding.

Not much—but enough. A thin red line winds its way down my wrist, slow and deliberate, before slipping onto the tile beside me.

Strange. I thought it would stop by now.

Something in my brain itches. Screams. Not in words, exactly—just a heat behind my eyes and a sharp pressure, urging. Do it again. Go deeper.

My eyes flick to the razor blade resting on the counter. It gleams softly under the vanity lights; waiting.

I should throw it away.

Just stand up, pick it up, drop it in the trash. Easy.

But it’s sitting right beneath the mirror, and if I move—if I stand—I might catch my reflection.

My stomach turns at the thought.

I don’t want to see myself like this. Even a glimpse would be too much.

I lean back against the tub and let my head rest against the cold porcelain. When I look up, I notice a dark stain blooming in the corner of the ceiling. How long has that been there? I don’t remember it before. Was it always there and I just never looked up?

I close my eyes.

What was it I wanted to say?

Would God even listen to someone like me?

Ungrateful. Wasteful.

Loved, but still breaking.

“Why am I like this?”

A beat of silence. Then I scream—loud enough to make my throat sting:

“Why can’t I just be normal!”

But there’s no one here to hear me. No one to flinch. No one to tell me I’m scaring them. No one to hold me and say it’s okay.

I’m home alone tonight. My lover’s visiting family. It was my idea—I told him to go without me.

A quiet, bitter sound escapes my throat. Not quite a laugh.

Did some part of me plan this?

If I do it right this time, no one will find me for days. No one will come to save me.

The thought catches me off guard. Like a match struck too close to my skin. I sit with it, startled—and then, somehow, breathing easier. The freedom of it fills my lungs like cold air. But then my heart clenches, sharp and sudden—as if it knows something my brain isn’t ready to admit.

What do I even want?

I let my head fall back again and stare into the nothing above me.

“God, I’m so tired…” I swallow. My throat burns. “I’m so tired of living.”

The truth of those words tastes like metal. I want to snatch them out of the air and shove them back down my throat, pretend they were never spoken.

But it’s too late.

The floodgates are open now, and all the thoughts I’d been keeping at bay come rushing in, loud and unrelenting.

.

What’s the point of me?

I stare at the blood again. It’s started to dry in places, a sticky maroon trail curving down my arm. The cut hadn’t been deep. Still, it was just enough.

Just enough to prove that I could still do it.

I want to laugh. I want to scream. I want to peel myself out of this skin and start over.

What am I even doing here?

I don’t make anything. I don’t fix anything. I wake up, I fake my way through the day, and I call that living. At work, I blend in so well I forget I’m even there. At home, I go through the motions. Smile. Nod. Fold laundry. Water a plant that should’ve died by now, just like me.

I love him. But what does that even mean, coming from someone like me?

Maybe this would be better. For everyone. For him. For my parents. For anyone who’s ever had to carry the weight of me. I’m a burden dressed in skin. I ruin quiet moments just by existing. Maybe if I left—if I did it right—it would be like finally giving them back the lives they should’ve had.

But the thought turns in my stomach. No, twists.

If I do this, my mother will never sleep through the night again. She’ll spend the rest of her life combing through every conversation we ever had, trying to find the moment she failed me. My father will carry it like a secret stitched into his chest—tight, invisible, inescapable. He’ll resent me.

How selfish could I be?

I hate the things I keep thinking. They’re shameful—so dark and tempting I feel sick just letting them live in my head. And yet… they whisper to me like old friends.

I know there are people who care about me. Someone who’s probably already picked out which coffee to bring me when he gets back. A dog who perks up the second he hears my voice. They exist. Their love exists. And still—some part of me aches to vanish, like none of it is enough to tether me here.

I press my palm to my face. It’s shaking. I’m shaking.

What kind of monster thinks like this?

I know what will happen if I do it. I know it’ll break them, destroy them. I know.

But still…

Still…

Something inside me won’t stop whispering.

Death means no more struggling. No more pretending. No more waking up exhausted and dragging myself through another seemingly endless day.

Only for me, though.

Only for me.

What about him—coming home to something horrifying and irreversible, forced to carry it alone? What about my mother, shaking with a grief she’ll never forgive me for?

I want to. God, I do.

But I shouldn’t. Not when they love me. Not when they’d be the ones left picking up the pieces.

Think about how good it would feel to let go. Just… quiet. Just peace. Just gone.

No.

No, I can’t. I can’t. “I can’t.”

It rips out of me. Tears streak down my cheeks, hot and endless. Full-bodied, ugly sobs wrack through me like a storm. I’m a mess, heaving, broken.

My heart aches like it’s splitting open. Like something inside me is crumbling and screaming and begging for a way out. I press my fists to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.

“Help me,” I whisper, voice wrecked.

“Please… help me choose.”