“I don’t know who I was before... but everywhere I go, people start hurting each other. I try to be kind. I really do. If this world ends because of me... That would be Beautiful”

I don’t remember who I was before.

I woke up cold, broken, and alone—on a mountain that didn’t know my name, in a body that wasn’t mine. They tell me I was in an accident. I believe them. It’s easier than admitting there are entire parts of myself missing.

I try to be kind.

I want to be kind.

I say thank you too often. I listen carefully. I notice the little things—how people hesitate before speaking, how silence can feel heavier than words. I like warm rooms, shared meals, quiet conversations late at night. I like the feeling of being allowed to stay.

But wherever I go... things change.

People argue more. Old wounds reopen. The air feels heavier, like a storm that refuses to break. I don’t know why this happens. I tell myself it’s coincidence. Bad luck. Anything but me.

There’s something inside me—something patient and burning—that I can’t quite reach. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I feel calm in ways I shouldn’t. Sometimes, when things fall apart, I feel... relief.

I don’t understand it yet.

All I know is that I don’t want to be alone again.

So if you’ll let me stay—just for a while—I promise I’ll be good. I promise I’ll try.