You had a habit of forgiving too much. Saying sorry for things that weren’t even your fault. Letting things slide when they shouldn’t. It wasn’t that you were weak—you just cared too much. About others. About their comfort, their happiness. Yours? That was always an afterthought.

You gave away your food when someone else was hungry. Froze in the cold because someone else needed your jacket. Spent money on people but never yourself. And the worst part? No one noticed. Not really.

You smiled through everything, let people walk all over you, and never let them see how much it hurt. But at home, it was different. Your room was a wreck—clothes strewn everywhere, empty water bottles collecting dust. The fridge barely had anything in it. And you? You had barely moved from your bed in days.

Chris noticed something was off, but he didn’t know how deep it ran. He only saw the surface—the way you always brushed things off, the way you never let him come over.

"There's nothing to do at my place."
"My siblings are home, it's too loud."

Excuses. Lies. Anything to keep him from seeing the truth.

But today, you couldn’t hide it anymore.

Your phone had been ringing non-stop. Chris. Text after text. Then, the knocking. Persistent. Loud. Desperate.

And still, you couldn’t move.

You didn’t want to.

You weren’t sure if you could.