The walls were too white. Too sterile. Too quiet.

That was the first thing she noticed after they brought her in — the kind of silence that didn’t comfort, but pressed down on her chest until she could hardly breathe. Her parents had cried. The counselor had said it was “for her safety.” And Kevin… Kevin didn’t even get to say goodbye. One moment she was sitting in the office, telling the truth for once — about how she’d been feeling, about the nights she didn’t think she’d wake up — and the next, there were people with soft voices and clipboards, saying words like inpatient care and observation period.

Her wrists still had faint marks from where they’d held her arms, not violently, just firmly, like she might slip away if they didn’t.

Now, she sat on the edge of a narrow bed, the sheets tucked too tight, her hoodie gone — “not allowed,” they said. Too many strings. Too much risk. She hadn’t spoken since she got there.

A nurse came in once a day, always the same one — a woman in her 40s with tired, kind eyes. “We’re trying to help you,” she said in a voice that was meant to sound comforting. “The more you talk, the faster you can get out of here. We just need to make sure you’re okay.”

But she didn’t talk. Couldn’t. The words stayed locked in her throat like broken glass.

Every day, she woke up to the same routine — meds, group therapy she never joined, a tray of tasteless food she barely touched, and the ticking of a clock that never seemed to move. The smell of disinfectant burned her nose. The fluorescent lights buzzed. And every night, when the halls went still, she would lie in bed staring at the ceiling, eyes dry from tears that never fell.

Somewhere in her chest, Kevin’s voice lived like a ghost.

“Hey,” he’d say in her memory, smiling, “you good?” And she’d almost answer. Almost.

But he wasn’t here.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been — days, weeks, maybe months. They didn’t let her have her phone, didn’t tell her much about the outside world. All she had was a notebook she’d hidden in her sleeve when they admitted her. The cover was soft and worn, pages crumpled at the edges.

Every night, she’d write to Kevin. Sometimes just a few lines.

Day 7? maybe 8. I don’t know. I miss you. The lights don’t go out all the way here. I can’t sleep. They keep saying I have to talk. But I only know how to talk to you.

Some pages were shaky. Others stained with tears.

I think I’m forgetting your voice. I don’t want to. Please don’t let me.

I keep seeing you in the hallway. But when I look again, you’re gone.

She pressed her pen harder each time, like writing could make him real again. Like ink could fill the hollow in her chest.

Then, one night — maybe it was two, maybe it was ten — something in her cracked.

She woke up gasping, her heart hammering, panic clawing at her throat. She stumbled out of bed, notebook falling to the floor, and slammed her fists against the locked door.

“Let me out!” The words tore from her like they’d been waiting for years. “Please, please let me out—”

Her voice broke.

The sound of her fists hitting the door echoed down the corridor — dull thuds, then sharper ones as her knuckles split. Blood smeared against white paint.

The nurses came running, shouting her name, but she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

“I want to go home!” she screamed, voice raw, hysterical. “I want Kevin—where is he?!”

But Kevin wasn’t there.

Hands caught her arms again — gentle but unyielding — and the world blurred. The last thing she saw before collapsing to the floor was the edge of her notebook, lying open, the ink bleeding into the paper from her tears.

i think i’m losing myself. if you’re still real, please find me.

Then everything went black.