Faded Voices

I sniff, my cheeks tickling from all the tears I’ve sobbed. The pillow is as soft as my cheek; rough and raw cheeks. I don’t bother wiping them — instead, I turn to my right towards the silent wall. I can hear the crickets’ soft, whispering rasps, like tiny bows drawing across invisible strings in the stillness of the night. Alone in the dark starless sky, I feel like screaming to fill the black. I toss and turn, restless, before giving up entirely. I sit down on my sheet-less bed and look at the sky. Oh wow. A single bright shining star has come out and it’s staring me down in a staring challenge. I blink, and it blinks twice at me. I smile slightly, and blink thrice; it replies with four. I chuckle and move away from the window to pity myself and finally get a tissue paper.

I toss the tissue aside and return to the window, drawn to the star’s stubborn glow. ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ I whisper, my voice cracking. And yet, there it is, defying the darkness, refusing to disappear. Something about that feels… comforting.

I stare it down, my pulse picking up, my heart reaching my throat so high I can’t talk; only listen to the crickets. Their rhythmic rasping seems louder now, as if they’re trying to drown out my thoughts—or warn me. My hands grip the edge of the window, knuckles white, but I don’t move. The light doesn’t either. It’s perfectly still, perfectly focused. On me.

“Star.” I gulp, scared the star will hear me. “Star, go away. Please.” It winks at me. Not blinks. Winks. I freeze, every muscle in my body locking up. The crickets’ song fades into the background, muffled by the pounding of my heart. I don’t want to turn around—I can’t—but the creak is followed by something worse. A sound so soft it could almost be my imagination.

A whisper.

“Turn around.”

The words brush against my ear like a cold breeze, faint but unmistakable. My chest tightens as my mind races, screaming at me to move, to do something—anything. But I’m rooted to the spot, staring at the window as if it holds the answers. The glass is still fogged from my breath, but I can see my reflection in the faint glow of the room. And there it is.

Behind me.

A shadow, tall and thin, standing impossibly still. I want to scream, but the sound catches in my throat, swallowed by the growing silence. The crickets have stopped. The air is suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight. I don’t dare move. I don’t dare breathe.

The whisper comes again, this time closer. Almost playful.

“Turn around.”

I don’t. My body is tied from terror.

But I do respond.

‘What?’ I murmur.

‘I know. I know my dear.’ And they take the last step and give me a hug. A warm, comforting hug, the kind of hug that makes you cry with relief and tension. The kind of hug that you get once in a lifetime. The kind of hug that makes you feel. I can’t. I let out a sob and slip to the ground, them wrapping me in their arms and rocking me.

“It’s not okay. I know.”

“It’s not…I can’t anymore, Star.”

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something—something I can’t name but can’t ignore. The world around me feels too still, too silent, as if holding its breath, waiting for me to make a move. My thoughts swirl in a frantic loop, but my body remains frozen, rooted in place. It’s a strange kind of paralysis—like my feet are sinking into the floor, dragging me deeper into an invisible hole. I want to move, to break free, but it feels like the moment I do, something will snap, something will break. The weight of it all presses down, smothering me with its quiet intensity, and the longer I stay still, the heavier it becomes.

“I’m so tired. So, so tired. I can’t keep going in circles. Every day feels the same. Every night, the same endless thoughts that suffocate me. I feel like I’m drowning. I feel so empty. Everything I do… it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fix anything. I can’t fix anything.”

My voice cracks. I can barely get the words out. But I keep going. “I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. Tired of acting like this isn’t killing me. I can’t breathe in this place, this dark, suffocating place. I can’t stay here. I want out. I need out. But I don’t know how. I don’t know how to fix this, fix me.”

They hold me tighter like they’re trying to steady me, but the words don’t feel like they make anything better. They don’t heal me. “No. You’re wrong,” they whisper gently. “You are brighter than you think. You are stronger than you know.”

I laugh, bitter and weak. “No. My heart is as black as coal. I’ve spent too long hiding, pretending. I can’t—” I stop, my throat tight, choking on the words. “I don’t think I can ever feel like I’m not broken.”

They don’t let go. They just hold me. Their warmth is steady, but it doesn’t fix the cold in my chest. “Work on yourself, darling,” they say, soft but firm. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to find your way. Cry today. But wake up tomorrow. You’re going to keep going. You have to.”

I cuddle next to them and they whisper, ‘Shine. Clean yourself. You’ll always have scars. You can never scrub yourself from black to white and be fully white again. No my dear. Your soul will always have scars but you will defeat them.’

‘You’re right.’ I breathe. ‘You’re right.’

‘I know.’

I close my eyes, the weight of their words sinking in, but it doesn’t make the ache go away. “I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can.”

“You will. Just keep going,” they say, their voice the only thing grounding me to this moment.

I let myself hold on to that. “I’ll try. I’ll try.”

The star outside the window flickers, its light growing stronger. But it’s not enough. It can’t be enough. I turn, but the space beside me is empty when I look back. The crickets are singing again, and the night feels the same as it always has. The star shines, but it’s distant now. Fading. And I’m left here, alone in the dark, with the same emptiness I’ve carried for so long.

I stare at the star, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. It feels like something was taken from me. Something I didn’t even realize I needed until it was gone. The star is gone. And I’m still here.

Loneliness feels like standing in the center of a crowded room where everyone is moving and talking, but none of it reaches you. It’s the silence that settles deep within you, the absence of connection that eats away at your insides, leaving only a hollow emptiness. The more you try to fill that space, the more it seems to expand, like a void you can’t escape. Your voice doesn’t matter. It echoes but never finds an answer. Your thoughts spiral in circles, trapped in your own head, fighting for attention but never finding release.

It’s like being stuck in a room with walls that keep closing in, no matter how much you scream or struggle to push them back. You can’t get out, and you can’t go anywhere. You’re tethered to a place, physically present but mentally miles away. Frustration builds inside, a slow burn, like a fire that doesn’t have enough air to catch, leaving you suffocating. You want to scream, to tear something apart, to break free from the cage of your own mind—but you don’t even know how to begin. The anger is there, but it’s misplaced. It feels like it should be directed outward, but it circles inward, building up pressure that you don’t know how to release.

The frustration mixes with sadness, and then you wonder if it’s sadness at all—or just a resignation to how things are. You begin to doubt your ability to change anything, to find a way out of the place where you’ve been left to sit in your own isolation. Every attempt to reach out feels like it falls short. No matter how much you try to connect, the space between you and the world around you only grows, like a river that’s too wide to cross. You start to wonder if anyone else feels this way, or if it’s just you, stuck in a never-ending cycle of wanting and never having.