I still don't understand when everything started to fall apart.
Maybe it was the pen.Maybe it was me.
But one thing I'm sure of…
I didn't choose any of this.
That night, I sat alone in silence, holding the pen like it was alive.
Because it was.
And for the first time… I was afraid to write.
Not because I couldn't.
But because I understood something worse:
If I write… something will die.If I don't… something will erase me.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely breathe.
And then, the notebook opened again on its own.
It didn't ask.
It commanded.
"Write your fear."
I froze.
Because I realized…
It wasn't asking for a story.
It was asking for my truth.
