Still Breathing

I wake up on the ground, and for a second I don’t understand why the world feels tilted.

The music is still in my head. Not loud anymore—just a dull echo, like it got stuck somewhere behind my ears and forgot how to leave. My cheek is pressed against concrete that smells like spilled beer and something sour. When I try to move, my body disagrees. Pain blooms slow and mean, like it has all the time in the world.

I stay still.

That feels safer.

Someone is laughing nearby. Not close enough to care. Fireworks crack in the distance, bright enough that the sky flashes red and white when I open my eyes. Happy New Year, I think. The words feel fake in my mouth, even unsaid.

I take inventory the way you do when something is wrong. My ribs hurt when I breathe too deep. My lip is split—I can taste metal. One of my hands is scraped raw, skin burning every time the cold air hits it. My phone isn’t in my pocket. Neither are my keys.

One shoe is gone.

That almost makes me laugh. Almost.

I try to sit up. The attempt is stupid. Pain answers immediately, sharp and final, and I drop back down with a breathless sound that might have been a groan. My vision blurs at the edges. The sky swims.

I think, very calmly, that this might be it.

Not dying—just… ending. Being left behind while everyone else moves forward into a new year with clean clothes and inside jokes and people who will text them tomorrow to make sure they got home safe.

I close my eyes.

Images come anyway. Not the party. Not the lights or the dancing or Lily pulling me toward the kitchen because the drinks were stronger there. Those memories slide away from me, like they’re being polite.

What sticks is my father’s voice.

If you were normal.

If you weren’t like this.

If you hadn’t ruined everything.

I swallow and immediately regret it.

I’ve known who I am for as long as I can remember. That truth has lived in me longer than guilt, longer than fear. Longer than the night my parents stopped pretending and everything cracked open. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t cause it. I know that.

Knowing doesn’t stop the voice.

A door slams somewhere. Footsteps pass, fast and careless. No one looks down. No one asks if I’m okay. I’m just another shape in the dark, easy to ignore.

I tell myself to move. To sit up. To scream. To do something that proves I’m still here.

Instead, I lie there counting my breaths and watching fireworks I didn’t earn. I wonder how long it takes before someone notices a body that doesn’t belong where it’s been left. I wonder if tomorrow will hurt worse than today.

Mostly, I wonder why being alive feels like something I keep getting punished for.

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