"Death; A tragedy we call the end.
Life; A tragedy we call the journey."
— Imperfect Desires
There were many things that made her feel afraid, and one of them was that house—along with her past. Both reminded her of painful memories she had managed to forget during 2020-2021. Returning to that house meant losing her freedom.
Surprisingly, after stepping inside, she didn't cry. Weeks passed, yet not a single tear fell. She showed no reaction. She was silent. She was mourning again, grieving for what she had lost. At night, in her new room, she was afraid of the dark—because from here, she could no longer see the moon or the stars. She would sleep with multiple lamps on, music playing in the background. Only after two or three hours would she finally drift off. She was scared to close her eyes.
Can you believe she never even unpacked her favorite things after moving there? She didn't touch them. Deep down, she still hoped she would return home one day. She just had to be patient and wait. She refused to feel anything. She locked her emotions away, set strict rules for herself—as if even she had begun to take away her own freedom and happiness. She didn't allow herself to feel joy in that house.
A question arises—why was she so afraid of that house?
Well, it was her parents' house—the place where her life began, where her childhood unfolded. But that house had always felt cold. The walls were dark, the town itself was mostly gloomy, and you could never truly see the dawn or sunset. The most painful events of her life had happened within those walls, leaving scars that ran deep. She was terrified that living there again would bring back all the pain and memories she had fought so hard to forget.
Every time she visited that house, she felt a sudden chill—goosebumps rising on her skin. Some memories were so vivid that she would instinctively sit on the floor, covering her ears and wrapping her arms around herself, as if protecting herself from something unseen. But within minutes, reality would settle in, reminding her that she was in the present, not the past.
2022, May
After that incident, she stopped caring—not just about her education, but maybe even about her life. Her teachers complained, wondering why her grades had dropped so low and why she was skipping school. But she remained silent. Time passed quickly, yet she barely did anything.
As for the rules she had set for herself, she followed them strictly. She didn't allow herself to do the things she once loved—no listening to her favorite songs, no watching her favorite movies, no wearing the clothes that made her feel like herself. She stopped taking pictures, stopped recording videos of her life. She wasn't really living anymore—just existing, waiting for the moment she could leave that house.
But over the past few months, she had been trying to bring back the past—the life she had in 2020-21. No matter how hard she tried, it wasn't the same. Sometimes, after school, she would visit that town. Those were the only moments when she truly smiled—seeing her home, her family, her friends. Every time she visited, she rushed to do everything she loved—watching dramas, listening to songs, dancing, drawing—trying to fit it all into the short time she had. Still, at the end of the day, before leaving, she kissed every wall of her room, just like before. And on the way back, sitting in the car, she would silently cry.
2022, July
She was truly losing herself. Ruthless, emotionless, rude, silent, closed off, careless, tough—she had become someone completely different from who she used to be.
She started drawing on the walls again. Ironically, she used colors she had never liked before—red, black, gray, and blue. She wanted to share her pain, but words failed her. So she painted her crumbling world. Hidden within each painting were unspoken sentences. If someone pieced them all together, they would form one desperate plea: HELP ME. But no one saw it. Instead, people only said, "Why have your drawings become so lifeless and dark?" "Are you crazy? Your art is scary." "They feel empty."
Still, in those dark days, she had 2-3 friends who stayed by her side. They knew most of what she was going through, and they helped her—at least mentally.
One day, while visiting her home, she was sitting with her family, happily eating together. Everything seemed normal. But then, suddenly, something shifted inside her.
She felt it—a disconnect.
Everyone was laughing at a joke, including her. But for some reason, her smile faded. She glanced around at her family members, their faces full of joy, and yet… she felt like she no longer belonged.
Her heart screamed, "We are losing our family."
And in that moment, she saw herself as a ghost. She was there—physically—but not mentally.
A picture formed in her mind: her family, full of warmth and color, while she stood apart—black and gray, separate from them all.
2022, August
Most of her relatives were convinced she wouldn't get into the academy. She hadn't studied for months, had practically dropped out of school, and even she didn't truly believe in herself. She didn't care much, either.
But she got in.
Not only that—she secured one of the top spots. Third place out of 149 students. Everyone was shocked. People had overlooked one thing: yes, she hadn't prepared for the exam, but she had never said she was dumb. Once, she loved studying.
She wasn't sure how to feel—happy or sad. Because getting into the academy meant she had to leave school. And at that moment, she remembered him. That boy.
Not that she had ever really forgotten. She still saw him whenever she went to school, but she never let herself dwell on him, never even allowed herself to bring up his name in her own mind.
But now, she had to leave. She wouldn't see him as often anymore.
And for some reason, she realized she had still been holding on to a small hope—that one day, she would talk to him.
But now, she had to choose.
Career… or perhaps love.
She chose her career.
2022, September
She left school. A new place, a new education system, new people. She was adapting to a different environment. But one thought lingered—what if she met someone here who would make her forget about him?
She avoided forming connections. She sat alone, ate alone, and walked the academy halls by herself. Some girls tried to befriend her. She spoke to them politely, smiled when necessary, but never let anyone get too close. After a few weeks, they understood and let her be.
She wasn't lonely—she was protecting herself. She had lost enough people already. The thought of loving someone only to lose them again was unbearable. She often overheard the girls talking about her, trying to define who she was. Shy, mysterious, quiet, introverted, distant—but kind. And she wondered—what would they think of her if they had met the person she used to be?
That year, 2022, was a silent one for her—but also one of the hardest. Month by month, she lost pieces of the home she had built within herself during those 673 days. At times, she was overwhelmed with anger, and people began to see her as a villain. But she wasn't cruel—she was just broken, desperately trying to protect her wounded heart.
Then, one day, she realized that her brokenness was hurting others too. And so, she made a decision. She isolated herself.
They had broken her. She had let them. And in the end, she chose to stay broken.