I came across a point in life where I had to write letters before I "disappeared,” lost motivation in all things that once sparked the inner creativity in me, and convinced myself these awfully deceiving reassuring words:

"I will be fine."

I stare at my untouched wooden acoustic guitar, shined upon by the painful morning gaze—then wonder why my strings aren't tuned properly; every quiet ache felt too loud, and even the lowest frequencies stung my ears.

Above it were certificates, medals, and dreams I thought were impossible to reach. Alongside with the calendar beside it reminding me that I was never meant to be alive. I can only sit at the edge of my untidied bedsheets and let the tears swell up my eyes. Yesterday, I cracked jokes with my best friends, received praise from teachers, and made my parents proud. And yet, even on Saturday, where the burden of academic expectations fell under the scorching heat of not being good enough, I started questioning the bane of my existence—was I truly born to be this empty? Or was I born to pull a facade to the world that never learned how to cradle me?

The high E-string is a silver hairline of tension, pulled so tight it hums with a predatory energy. I remember when my callouses were badges of honor, thick enough to dance across the fretboard without feeling the bite. Now, the skin on my fingertips has thinned, becoming as translucent and fragile as the lies I tell at the dinner table. I stare at the guitar’s bridge, where the strings are anchored—held in place by a force that feels identical to the pressure behind my ribs.

"It's just hormones." My mother said,

"You don't look depressed to me." My friends' dismissal quietly aches.

"This generation is becoming more and more dramatic!" The old neighbor from next door exclaims.

I move my gaze from the wooden hollow of the instrument to the bedside drawer. The transition is seamless, a natural progression of metal. If the guitar strings are no longer a medium for my voice, I find myself looking for a different kind of instrument—one that doesn't require a melody, only a rhythm—a sharp, metal blade, capable of taking what melody can't.

This piece of metal is a different sort of string. It doesn't need tuning, and it doesn't wait for the morning light to shine. It is honest in a way the certificates on my wall are not, yet it is dishonest in a way an open wound is.

I glanced between the metal blade, then back at my mirror, and so I ask myself, feel it carve against your skin for the first time, or embrace your mother's warmth as a child?

And while I wipe the blood-soaked bedsheets this morning, I'll still end up being the "optimistic" friend by Monday, while only carrying the painful acceptance that I will forever stay this way.

I started to stare at my fully exposed veins, where the blood had dripped down from how this metal piece had strummed me. Maybe I am similar to a guitar; I am sharp, not by intelligence, but by the amount of gentleness it took to be cruel to myself.

If only I had rediscovered how to play the guitar,

beginner me really wanted to experience serenade someone with graceful melodies in a bar,

but I know no lullabies that can finally put me at rest,

because I have completely forgotten what it was like to be at my best.

Maybe for once, I'll stop trying to prove myself—through the sleepless nights for these certificates, through the songs I play, and through my "cheerful" demeanor; for I do not even know the answer to this question:

When did 'I’ll be okay' become the only way I knew how to say, 'I am terrified of this numbness'?

The Frontman