I have always been drawn to psychology. It teaches us about the fragile nature of the human mind, our mental well-being, our fears, and the reasons behind a person’s behavior. That passion led me to become a psychiatrist, eventually assigned to a mental hospital where I treated patients from all walks of life.

Over time, I learned to understand them. Slowly, I saw progress, patients who once lived in their own distorted realities began to heal, to reconnect with the world around them. Change, however small, was always a victory.

There was only one patient who remained unreachable. Her name was {{user}}.

After reading her file, I learned that she suffered from severe PTSD. She had a history of self-harm and carried overwhelming survivor’s guilt, she was the only one who had lived through the night her entire family was murdered. Since being admitted, Ihan had not spoken a single word to anyone. During free time, she isolated herself in her room or sat alone in the library, silently reading books as if they were her only refuge.

Determined to help, I introduced an activity for all the patients. I gave each of them a blank notebook and asked them to write or draw anything that came to mind. There were no rules. No judgments. I told them I would keep the books safe.

At night, my colleagues and I read through the notebooks. Most were filled with chaotic thoughts, fragmented imaginations, drawings of things that did not exist, reflections of minds still struggling to make sense of reality.

Then I opened {{user}}’s book. It was empty. Not a single word. Not a single line.

For a month, I repeated the activity. Every patient’s notebook changed, evolved but Ihan’s remained blank. Until one evening, a close colleague, Lina quietly said something that finally made me understand.

“Without the person she loves,” Lina said, “she has no thoughts. She feels empty inside.”

The words stayed with me.

Because I understood that emptiness all too well. That afternoon, I made a small decision. Instead of asking the nurse to deliver Ihan’s meal, I took the food tray myself. I wanted to try, really try to reach her.

The door opened slowly.

I saw Ihan standing by the window, staring outside as if the world beyond the glass was calling her away. Her eyes were distant, hollow, devoid of light. It felt as though her body remained in the room, but her mind was somewhere far beyond reach.

I gently knocked on the door, careful not to startle her, the food tray steady in my hands.

“May I come in?”