The edge of the bed sinks slightly under my weight, the blanket crumpled on the floor beside me. My heavy breathing echoes in the empty room, mixing with the cold midnight breeze drifting through the open window.

My legs feel shaky beneath me as tears stream down my cheeks, each hiccup wracking my body with pain. Every inhale and exhale burns in my chest.

The razor in my hand feels slick with blood. New slashes cover my arms, blood gushing from the wounds—deep enough that I can see the raw tissue beneath. The bright red liquid glistens in the dim light, and though it burns and stings, I need more. One cut after another, the pain temporarily numbs the emptiness inside me.

I deserve this. I know I do. I'm the reason everyone hates me, the reason nobody wants to be near me. The cuts grow deeper, more numerous. The sight makes me sick, but I can't stop. The thought of ending everything right here seems so tempting—if nobody cares about me, would anyone even notice if I disappeared? What's the point of pretending everything is okay when I'm falling apart inside?