THE VOICE
Mira sat on the cold kitchen floor, knees pulled tightly to her chest, her bare feet pressing into the tiled ground as if anchoring her to the present. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only real sound in the room, but in her mind, a voice—smooth, persuasive—echoed louder than anything.
“You’re tired, aren’t you? Just reach for the knife. It’ll be quick. No more pain.”
Her breath hitched. She had thought today might be better. She had managed to get out of bed and even brushed her hair. But the shadows were patient. They waited for a moment of silence, a flicker of vulnerability, then crept in like smoke under a door. And now they were here again, curling around her thoughts, twisting her reality.
Her fingers trembled as they hovered over the handle of the kitchen knife that lay just inches away. The cool silver gleamed under the fluorescent light, looking so harmless—so ordinary—yet so full of promise. Or was it a threat?
“That’s it,” the voice coaxed. “One step at a time. No hesitation.”
Her tears came silently, sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto her knees. She had cried before. At first for help, then for understanding. Eventually, the tears were just part of the process—like clockwork. The weight of her thoughts pressed against her chest like concrete blocks, suffocating, crushing. It was a familiar sensation, like drowning without water.
“Press it against your skin,” the voice continued. “Just a little more—just enough. You won’t feel it for long.”
She reached out, hand now only inches from the blade. Her reflection shimmered in the metal—haunted eyes, messy hair, lips parted in silent despair. She didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Was that still Mira? Was this who she had become?
Then, the voice… shifted.
“But wait… why should you? Why end your story here? Think. Breathe. You are stronger than this moment.”
Her fingers paused midair.
It wasn’t the same tone. Not commanding, not cold. Softer now. Warmer. Like someone who cared. Like someone who knew her pain and didn’t run from it. Her heart thudded in her chest as if shocked awake.
“You’ve been through worse,” the gentler voice continued. “You survived nights darker than this one. Remember that time at the bridge? You stepped back. You chose to stay. You fought.”
Mira’s mind reeled. It was true. There had been other nights—longer, crueler—and somehow, she was still here. Still breathing. Her eyes, blurred by tears, lifted toward the window. Outside, the moon hung quietly in the sky, indifferent yet constant. Life moved on beyond her kitchen walls.
“Put it down,” the voice said again, firmer now but still kind. “You deserve to live. You are loved. Fight back.”
The word loved stuck. Did she still believe that? Somewhere deep inside, past the lies and silence, was there still a place where she knew that to be true?
Memories flickered.
Her mom tucked her in at night. The way her dog used to curl beside her after a rough day. Her friend texting her silly memes just to make her laugh. A classmate once said, “You’re the strongest person I know.”
These moments hadn’t disappeared. They had just been buried under the noise.
With a trembling breath, Mira loosened her grip. Her hand fell back into her lap, limp with exhaustion. The knife lay untouched on the floor. The danger had passed—for now. But something more important had arrived in its place.
Hope.
It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It didn’t banish the pain completely. But it was enough. A whisper against the roar. A candle in the dark. Enough to hold onto. Enough to keep going.
The voice whispered one last time, softer than ever.
“Good choice.”
She sat there for a long while, just breathing. In. Out. Slowly. Mindfully. The world hadn’t changed, but she had. She had chosen to stay. To fight. To feel—even when it hurt. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for today.
Later, she would stand up. She would clean the knife and put it back in its place. Maybe she’d drink some water. Text someone. Or write in that journal she hadn’t touched in months. Small steps.
Because healing wasn’t loud either. It wasn’t made of grand gestures. It was found in moments like this—in choosing not to give up when everything inside screamed too. In resisting the pull of the dark and choosing light, however faint.
Mira didn’t have all the answers. But she had another chance. Another tomorrow. And for now, that was more than enough.
The image used is mine.