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There’s a story sitting in one of my old notebooks. No title. No ending. Just thirty-something pages of quiet pain.
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I remember starting it late one night when sleep felt impossible. I wasn’t writing for anyone. I just needed a place to put everything I couldn’t say out loud. So I created a character who smiled too much. Who made everyone laugh but never really felt part of the moment. Who checked in on others but never asked for help. Who wrote poems on their phone at 2 a.m. and deleted them the next morning before anyone could accidentally read too much.
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The story started like any other. A lonely kid trying to survive in a loud world. A little invisible. A little broken. I thought I was writing fiction, but the more I kept going, the more I realized I wasn’t telling a story. I was telling the truth.... just using someone else’s name.
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I kept writing, trying to give the character some kind of hope. Maybe a friend. A teacher who noticed. A stranger who said the right words at the right time. But every time I tried to save them, it felt fake. I wasn’t convinced. Because I knew how hard it was to be noticed in real life. I knew how easy it was to smile while falling apart. And I didn’t know how to give the character something I hadn’t even found yet.
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I stopped writing a week later. I told myself I’d come back to it. That I was just stuck. But the truth is, I was scared. I didn’t want to write an ending because I didn’t know what kind of ending felt honest. I didn’t know if they got better. I didn’t know if they disappeared quietly. I didn’t know if they just kept going until the pretending became too loud.
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Sometimes I open that notebook again. I read a few paragraphs and remember exactly where I was when I wrote them. It’s strange how something unfinished can still feel so complete in its sadness. Like the silence was always part of the story.
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I think we all have stories like that. Not just in notebooks, but in our lives. Chapters that never got closed. Feelings that never got explained. Pain that just faded without ever being fixed.
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That’s why I never finished it. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to write a happy ending that didn’t feel earned. And I didn’t want to write a sad one that made it feel hopeless.
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So maybe this isn’t a story after all. Maybe it’s just a memory I wasn’t ready to finish. Maybe the most honest stories are the ones we’re still living.
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If you ever started something that hurt too much to finish, you’re not alone.
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Some stories end quietly, without closure, without meaning ... and sometimes, that’s okay.
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