It's me again. Hello.
I was sitting in my room, on the edge of my bed. You may wonder how I managed to climb those stairs without overcoming my fears. I didn't.

The few steps I tried to take abruptly stopped, and I collapsed. Fear overtook me. My heart was beating at a pace I had never felt before. My palms were slick with sweat, so slippery that every step I tried to take only left me back where I had started.

The rapid beating of my heart didn't stop my mind from racing, terrified of what was to come. And the only thing I could see was darkness.

That's why you don't fear — because your fears will come true.

I woke up lying in my room. Maybe I did manage to leave those stairs, maybe I didn't. I don't even care. At least I was safe. I shut my eyes tightly and sat up. The events replayed themselves in front of me. I crawled to the edge, dragging my blanket with me, pulling it over myself and shivering — not from the cold, but from the memories.

I threw the blanket aside and stared at the ceiling. Nothing — just a blank white ceiling. I sighed, calming myself slowly. To outsiders I must have looked calm, collected, nonchalant. But in reality, I was always afraid. I had to remind myself not to be. I had to act like I wasn't. I had to lie to myself. But it only created a reality where fear was constant around me. People grew wary of me. I created fears for myself, and for others.

I stood up from the bed and walked toward the balcony door. When I opened it, a light breeze touched my skin so softly. I inhaled the fresh air. I definitely needed this. Even though I enjoy watching the night sky more, seeing the daylight made me feel a little at ease. I wasn't a fan of sunny weather or rain, but the quiet peace — with only the sound of the wind — made it feel more comforting, more like everyday life. One thing I always loved about the orphanage was my balcony. There were only three people here with one, and I was one of the lucky ones. I could enjoy fresh air whenever I wanted, without being punished for going outside. Still, nothing compared to lying on the grass at night, watching each star appear and shine on its own, only to realize how beautiful they become when they shine together.

I took a deep breath and let it out. My heartbeat felt normal again; I felt a little more relaxed. One might even say this was my own feeling of happiness. I wanted to smile at that thought. I did, with tears in my eyes, ending my thoughts with a dream. My own version of happiness...

I stayed in the dream for a good minute, gripping the balcony fence tightly. The moment I let go, it all shattered into pieces, each one holding a single tear. I went back into my room — dorm, jail, hell, whatever you want to call it. I plopped onto my bed and watched the clock ticking. Tick tock, tick tock. The way it swept through each number so quickly made me think about how time can feel both painfully slow and unbearably fast at once.

For many people, time is important — though in different ways. Some are afraid of losing track of it, of wasting it on things that were never worth it. For others, time is a way to hold onto memories, to slow things down, to return to moments with loved ones or to something they missed.

When my grandfather died, my mother was devastated. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. She couldn't eat or sleep for days. Time passed so quickly she nearly forgot his funeral. She was terrified to go, and my father had to drag her there.

I didn't know what to feel, think, or say. My grandfather was gone, but I had never met him. I'd only seen him once in a family portrait my mother kept. Beyond that, we had no connection.

When my mom broke down at the funeral, wishing she could go back in time, I was confused. Time had already sealed her choices, already carried her past away. But now, I understand. That was one of the moments when I, too, wished I could go back — not to change anything, but simply to be there for her.

It wouldn't have made a big difference. But at least she would have known that time wasn't the reason we fell apart. We were.

Time is not the reason I am the way I am. It is the reason I learned to understand myself alone — dying a little more each time in the process. Time is endless. Yet everything around me fails to see that, with time, even pain can end one too.