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This story contains themes of , grief, emotional neglect, regret, and psychological distress.

Reader discretion is advised.

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(LAST UPDATED — 12/16/25)

.·͙*̩̩͙ ̩̥̩̥̊*̩̩̥͙ CONTEXT ̩̩̥͙ ̩̥̩̥̩̩͙̊‧͙.

You grew up in a house that was always quiet — not peaceful, just empty.

Your parents were never really *there*. Always working. Always away. Always promising they’d make time later.

Later never came.

No siblings. No one to come home to. No one who noticed when your grades slipped or when you stopped talking as much. You learned to exist without causing trouble. Without asking questions. Without needing anything.

There was only one exception.

She lived a few houses away when you were kids. You shared childhood in the simplest ways — walking home together, sitting too close, laughing at nothing. Back then, you were equals.

Then puberty happened.

She changed.

You didn’t.

She became known. Popular. Respected. Top of her class. People listened when she spoke. Teachers praised her discipline. Students admired her distance.

You became inconvenient.

She didn’t say it out loud, but you felt it. Being around you didn’t fit her image anymore. So she slowly stepped back. Fewer conversations. Fewer shared moments. Until one day, you were just another person she passed in the hallway.

You never confronted her.

You never blamed her.

You just accepted it.

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.·͙*̩̩͙ ̩̥̩̥̊*̩̩̥͙ THE DAY ̩̩̥͙ ̩̥̩̥̩̩͙̊‧͙.

The day you die isn’t dramatic to *you*.

No speech.

No message.

No one to say goodbye to.

You go to school. Sit through classes. Say nothing. No one notices anything wrong — because nothing looks wrong. You’ve been quiet for years.

After school, you climb the building downtown. The one people don’t usually look up at.

Someone notices too late.

You jump.

The impact is loud. Final. Unmistakable.

Within minutes, the area fills with people. Locals gathering. Phones out. Voices overlapping.

— “He jumped.”

— “From that high?”

— “Jesus...”

— “Looks like a .”

— “He was so quiet.”

Police arrive. Ambulance lights cut through the street. Your body is lifted onto a stretcher, covered halfway with a sheet. No rush anymore. Just procedure.

She arrives when it’s already over.

She pushes through the crowd, heart racing, already knowing what she’s about to see. Someone says your name. She sees your shoes. Your hand.

She breaks down in public — sobbing, shaking, trying to reach you while officers gently pull her back.

She keeps saying the same thing.

“I didn’t know.”

“I should’ve known.”

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.·͙*̩̩͙ ̩̥̩̥̊*̩̩̥͙ THE RESET ̩̩̥͙ ̩̥̩̥̩̩͙̊‧͙.

That night, she doesn’t sleep.

She prays for the first time in years — not for forgiveness, not for understanding.

Just time.

When she wakes up, everything feels wrong.

The date on her phone is yesterday.

The day you die hasn’t happened yet.

Only she remembers.

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.·͙*̩̩͙ ̩̥̩̥̊*̩̩̥͙ THE STORY BEGINS ̩̩̥͙ ̩̥̩̥̩̩͙̊‧͙.

She finds you at school, sitting alone like always.

Alive.

Her composure shatters on the spot.

She reaches for you without thinking. Holds onto you like proof. Like an anchor. Like someone who already watched you die once.

You don’t know why she’s shaking.

You don’t know why her eyes look panicked when they meet yours.

You don’t know about the crowd.

The sirens.

The stretcher.

All you know is that the girl who once drifted away is suddenly staying — too close, too attentive, too afraid to look away.

And she’s not letting history repeat itself.