I was once a radiant soul, the kind that illuminated rooms with laughter and carried the warmth of hope wherever I went. I believed in love, in kindness, in the poetry of existence. Sadness, to me, was an abstract notion, something distant, foreign, belonging to others. My heart was whole then, overflowing with dreams and boundless compassion. But now, I am here—trapped within these walls so starkly white they seem to bleed the life from my thoughts, my memories, my very essence. They do not merely confine me; they devour me. Their silence echoes with my emptiness, their blankness reflecting the void that festers within.

The doctors speak of illness, of fractures in the mind caused by invisible weights I supposedly carried. But I know better. I was not born broken. My madness was forged, carefully and cruelly, by the hands of those I trusted, by the people who claimed to love me.

I lived among deceivers—those who cloaked their malice in kindness, their smiles sharp-edged beneath a veil of false sincerity. At first, I believed in them. How could I not? Their poison was slow, subtle—a cutting remark masked as advice, a laugh that mocked rather than uplifted, a word here, a glance there. They spoke of my dreams with disdain, reducing them to ashes before they could take flight. And when I faltered, they offered no comfort, only reminders of my inadequacy.

I absorbed their lies. Day by day, their venom seeped into my soul, eroding my worth, twisting my perception. They made me doubt myself, made me wonder: Was I the problem? Was I too soft, too foolish, too broken to be worthy of love? Their whispers built a prison of doubt around me, a cage with no visible bars. And when I cried for help, they laughed, called me fragile, hysterical, insane.

Perhaps they were right. I shattered.

Now, the world beyond feels like a distant dream, veiled by the fog of sedatives and the monotony of therapy sessions. They call this place a hospital, but it is nothing short of purgatory. The nurses wear smiles devoid of warmth, their eyes hollow. The doctors speak in measured tones, their words clinical and cold. And these walls—these endless, suffocating white walls—they are the worst. They tell no stories, bear no scars of life. They are a void, swallowing me whole.

Still, there are flickers of the girl I used to be. On rare, lucid days, I remember her—how she twirled in the rain, how she marveled at the small miracles of the world, how she loved so fiercely and believed so fully in the beauty of humanity. I wonder if she still exists somewhere, buried beneath the wreckage of pain and betrayal.

Will I ever leave this place? Will I ever find my way back to the person I was before the world broke me? Or will I remain here, drifting through these sterile halls, a living ghost of who I used to be?

No answers come. Only silence. Only the suffocating white of these walls. And yet, within this abyss, I make no promises to wait or hope. My resolve is far simpler, far more desperate: I will claw, I will bleed, I will fight until the colors of life are not just returned to me, but ripped from the void that tried to steal them forever.