Untitled #3
Some days, I wake up and it feels like the sun is shining for me.
I open my eyes before the alarm, feeling the warmth of the light pouring through my curtains. My heart beats fast, but not in a bad way — in a bright way, like my whole body is made of sunlight.
I throw off the blanket and laugh at myself for feeling so alive. I make breakfast for everyone — pancakes, eggs, even fresh juice — because I can. Mom stares at me like I’ve been replaced.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I grin. “Too much energy, I guess.”
She laughs, and for a moment, I feel proud. Like I’ve finally figured it out — how to be the version of me everyone likes.
At school, I talk too much. I can’t stop. I join every conversation, raise my hand for every question, make jokes that actually land. Even my teacher says, “You’re glowing today, Li.”
And I am.
I take notes, doodle hearts in the margins, text my best friend during class about how we have to go to the beach this weekend. My mind is full of ideas — so many I can’t keep track. I want to learn guitar, start a small business, redecorate my room, maybe volunteer somewhere. I feel like I’m finally catching up to life.
But sometimes, the light inside me burns too hot.
That night, I can’t sleep. My thoughts won’t slow down. I scroll, I write, I clean, I hum a song I don’t know the words to. My chest feels like a balloon — full, tight, ready to burst.
And then the next morning, I crash.
I wake up and the air feels heavier. The sunlight that made me feel invincible yesterday just hurts my eyes. My heart still beats fast, but it feels different — unsteady. My hands tremble a little when I hold my toothbrush.
Everything I did yesterday looks wrong now. The texts I sent, the promises I made. “Beach trip” suddenly sounds exhausting. Even thinking feels like dragging a weight uphill.
When I get to school, I keep my head down. I don’t talk much. Mei asks if I’m okay, and I just nod. I don’t know how to tell her that I can’t find the girl I was yesterday.
At lunch, I sit by the window, picking at my food. I watch people laughing, chatting like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I want to join, but I feel distant — like there’s glass between me and everyone else.
“Li, you’re quiet today,” my classmate says.
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“Just tired,” I reply automatically. It’s the easiest lie to tell.
When I get home, I stare at the shelf I half-painted during one of my “good” days. It’s still unfinished — bright blue on one side, dull wood on the other. I tell myself I’ll finish it tomorrow. But I don’t.
Tomorrow comes, and the heaviness stays.
I forget to reply to messages. My mom asks if I’m upset with her. I shake my head. I’m not. I’m just… empty.
At night, I sit by my window and watch the city lights blur in the distance. I think about how strange it is — to feel everything and nothing at once.
Sometimes I cry without knowing why. Sometimes I stare at the ceiling for hours, trying to remember what it felt like to be happy.
And then, just when I think I’ll never climb out of it — something shifts again.
It starts small. I laugh at a meme. I eat breakfast without feeling like I’m forcing myself. I catch a glimpse of the sunrise and think, that’s pretty.
The next morning, I’m humming again.
It’s not the same rush as before — softer, slower, like the world is easing me back in. I go out for a walk. I smile at strangers. I start painting the shelf again.
Maybe this is what balance feels like. Not joy, not sadness — just peace.
But I know better than to trust it completely. The quiet never lasts long.
Still, I hold onto it when I can. On those calm days, I write small notes to myself:
You are more than your highs.
You are more than your lows.
You are still you.
Some days, I believe it. Some days, I don’t.
But I keep trying.
Because even if the light inside me flickers, it never really goes out.
