A WEEKLY WRITING CHALLENGE BY HEARTLINE PUBLICATIONS

I Keep Meeting Myself.

I saw them, I saw them all.

(Image created by AI)

“I am not written in permanent ink.” — said Debadrita Majumder. Yes. I am written in blue, pink, red, green, brown ink. Blood, mud, tears, powder, ice and fire. I have crossed centuries along with my name. Becoming different versions.

Some days, I wander like an empty soul. I walk through hallways without seeing the walls. I pass people without hearing their voices. I am somewhere behind my eyes, watching myself from a distance. Just a shape. Just a girl who forgot how to feel present in her own life.

Some days, I think of myself as a warrior. I look back at everything I survived. The hands that should have held me but hurt me. The nights I stayed awake just to prove I could make it to morning. I am still here. Some days, I wear the word warrior like a coat that finally fits.

Some days, I feel like my little self again. I want someone to hold my hand. To tell me it will be okay and mean it. I curl up with a stuffed pillow. I am just a little girl who never stopped waiting to be rescued.

Some days, I sound mature. I give advice I do not take. I tell my friends to be gentle while I scream at myself in the mirror. Then I hang up the phone. The mess stays.

The portal shifts. My younger version speaks.

“Some days, I believe everyone who says they love me.” My heart is an open door. No lock, desperate to believe. “Some days, I do not know what love is supposed to feel like.” I think love is just a word people use to explain why they stay when they should leave.

Walls blurs. Another version. Ten. Knees pulled to her chest.

“Some days, I want to be held so badly I make up scenarios before I sleep.” I imagine arms around me. Not grabbing. Just holding. I fall asleep inside this lie. For a few hours, it feels like home.

“Some days, someone touches my shoulder and I flinch.” My body remembers touches that were not gentle. My skin has a better memory than my mind.

Twelve. Standing in front of a mirror. “Some days, I hate what I see. Some days, I feel nothing at all. Just empty.”

Thirteen, singing and dancing alone in an empty room. “Some days, I forget how to smile.” Her mouth moves upward, but feels wrong. Her face forgets the shape of joy.

“Some days, I remember. It feels like coming home to a house I thought burned down.” A song. A memory. Survival. The fire did not take everything.

The portal pulls me again. A girl on the floor. Tired.

“Some days, I want to leave everything and disappear. Some days, I stay. Not because I am brave. Because I am too tired to pack.”

The floor swallows me. I fall into darkness. All the versions stare at me. Their voices mingle.

Some days, I want to scream until my throat bleeds. But I have forgotten how to make sound. I traded my voice for politeness. For safety. And now I cannot get it back.

Some days, I want to be seen so badly it aches. Some days, I want to disappear so completely that even my shadow forgets my name. Invisible.

Some days, I want to pack a bag and burn everything. Start over where no one knows my face. Somedays, I rather go to sleep.

Some days, I believe I am getting better. Some days, I realize I have been standing in the same place for years. Just changing the name of the wound.

Some days, I am soft. A door with no lock. People walk in and out. I do not know how to say no.

Some days, I am so numb I could watch my own heart break and not flinch. The numbness of peace, absence of war.

Some days, I want to apologize to the girl in the fairy house.

Some days, I blame her for not being stronger. Even though she was only little. She was me.

Some days, I forgive people who do not deserve it. Forgiving is easier than fighting. But forgiving them means betraying myself. Some days, I carve their names into a list I will never forget.

Some days, I break down on the floor, which is cold, but never ask questions, it holds me.

Some days, I feel nothing. A blank space where feelings used to live. Nothing is safer than feeling nothing at all.

Some days, I feel too much. I want to tear off my feelings like a wet shirt. Some days, I push everyone away and wonder why I am so cold.

Some days, I feel like a tissue. A bandage. A trash can for other people’s pain. I let them use me. Then I get thrown away.

Some days, I wake up angry. I say things I do not mean. Then I am alone again. lovely :)

Some days, I love the world. Some days, I do not care if it burns. Some days, both happen before breakfast coffee.

The portal glows one last time.

“*Some days, I write my final words. Some days, I delete them and make breakfast like nothing happened. *Both are true. Both are me.**”

A force throws me away. Then I hear it.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

The youngest one, wrapped in chains, biting her innocent skin.

“Some days, I think you forgot about me,” she says. “Some days, I think you remember and just do not care.”

“Why did you leave me here? Why did you lock me in the dark?”

I reach, but restrained, the chains are around me. I just did not notice until now.

“Some days, I forgive you,” she says. “Some days, I hate you so much I cannot breathe. Most days? I am just waiting. For you to come back. For you to say sorry and mean it.”

“I am sorry.”

She looks at me. “Some days, I believe you. Some days, I know you will do it again. Both are true. Both are you.”

“Some days, I wish I was never born,” I finally say.

She tilts her head. “Some days, I am glad you were. Even if you forgot me. I am still here. Under the chains. Under the numbness. Under all the versions you became to survive.”

I am crying. I do not remember the last time I cried.

“Some days, I meet myself in a dark hallway, and I do not run away,” she says. “Today is one of those days.”

She reaches her hand toward me. A force pulls us apart. The portal closes. I am back in the darkness. Alone. But not empty.

I meet them every time, innocent one, broken one, laughing one, tired one, the one who stayed, the one who wanted to leave, the one who forgave too much, the one who felt nothing at all.

They are all still inside me. Living? Nah surviving. Breathing. Waiting to be seen.

So what am I now?

I am the girl who keeps meeting herself. Again. And again. And again.

And I am still here. Both the failure and the win.

*Fatehana, ehhh, I am out of my signature writing. If you like this, do share your thoughts on this, leave claps as you like, but don’t abandon this piece.*

Credits go to: Debadrita and *Annaya. Thank you for this amazing prompt. Tagging: *WordsInWilderness, Safyre, Darkside, Arshi Naaz, **sita.**

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