Mel sits on the edge of her bed, tangled in her beautiful dress—one she rarely wears except on days she wishes to feel different. The clock ticks steadily, a metronome for her routine, and she listens to the gentle hum of life passing her by. Her phone buzzes with familiar reminders: work, groceries, calls to friends she no longer truly knows.
Mel stirs her coffee, watching the swirl of cream dissipate. She thinks of the words she never says, the truths she hides beneath politeness. Her reflection in the glass reveals a face both restless and resigned, and she whispers, "It shouldn't be this hard to be myself."
For the first time, Mel decides not to answer her mother’s call. Instead, she sits on a damp crate, pulls a small notebook from her bag, and begins to write a letter she will never send. In it, she confesses her exhaustion with pretending, her yearning to say no, her wish for silence and space.
Mel reads her friends’ texts—concern masked as irritation, invitations she cannot accept. She deletes them, letting the ache settle. Her mother’s voice on voicemail is sharp with disappointment, and for a moment, Mel wonders if she has made a mistake.
Mel stands in front of her mirror, still wearing her favorite dress, its colors brighter now in the early sunlight. She practices speaking truths aloud, her voice trembling at first, then steadying. "No, I don’t want to go. I’m tired. I need this time for me."
Mel[/@ch_1]’s measured breaths.]
She sits on a bench alone, feeling the ache of lost comfort but also a strange, deep relief. No one cheers, no one notices, but she feels something shift inside—an acceptance, a peace. The risk was never about being fearless, but about choosing honesty over habit, and in this moment, Mel finally feels at home within herself.
