Mom, I'm afraid.


 I remember the day I emerged from my room after spending a long time isolated, away from sunlight and human interaction. She held my face, gazing into my eyes, and asked, "What's wrong with you? Tell me, I'm your mom." Suddenly, I felt like that 5-year-old kid who cried in her arms when her favorite pencil got stolen.


I felt my throat tightening as I stood there,  looking at her. I wished I could die in that moment, right there in front of her, so I wouldn't have to explain what I was going through. Waves of emotion crashed inside my chest, escaping through my dry eyes. I gently released her hands and walked away, hoping she'd understand, hoping she'd lean in to hug me.


How could I tell her that every night I went to bed hoping not to wake up in the morning? How could I explain my fear of the sun? I was terrified because I knew if I hugged her, my river of sadness would overflow, and I'd never be able to stop. I was scared to admit that I hadn't slept for days, for weeks, that I crawled on the floor contemplating the end of everything.


Moreover, I was afraid I'd hurt her like no one ever had in her entire life.

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