No one asked why I laughed too hard at 9 a.m., why my hands shook when the room was too quiet, why my bag clanked, why I kept a hoodie on even in the heat. I was thirteen, and life felt too big to touch, too sharp to feel, too heavy to hold. So I drank to make the edges blur, to pour myself into something that wouldn’t look back. It wasn’t parties, no red cups and loud music. It was alone— behind the shed, on the walk to school, in the bath and the shower, in the bathroom where the light buzzed like a warning. I became good at pretending. At saying “I’m tired,” when what I meant was “I don’t know how to feel without this.” At showing up with just enough smile, with just enough conviction that no one questioned. I knew how to count ounces by gulps, how to dodge the questions by asking more. How to stare through mirrors and see nothing worth saving. Some nights, I whispered to the ceiling to make it stop. Other nights, I hoped it wouldn’t. Some, I hoped I would end. I don’t remember the first time I felt lost. Only the days I stopped trying to be found. But there are moments now— small, aching seconds— where I feel the breath come easier. Where I taste water and it feels like a promise. I’m still here. Somehow. Still trembling. Still choosing. Still reaching for a version of me that doesn’t need to disappear to survive.