My words are not ink; they are the ashes of my breath.
I am already gone, but my pain... it lingers. It needs to be told. Because if I don't pour it out, it will rot inside the silence, and I cannot bear another eternity of keeping it.
This is not a story. It is the echo in my skull. It is the scream no one hears while the world walks past, eyes fixed on their own lives.
I write this with what is left of me.