The cold night air wrapped around me like a shroud, icy fingers creeping beneath my skin, seeping into my bones. The rough concrete bit into my knees, scraping away any pretense of comfort. Blood oozed slowly from the wound beneath my ribs, warm and sticky, mixing with the dirt and grime of the street. Each breath was a jagged shard of pain stabbing at my lungs, every heartbeat a heavy drum that grew fainter by the second.
I sat there, crumpled and broken, staring into the dark abyss of the night, feeling the weight of every second slipping away like grains of sand through desperate fingers. Death had come for me—not softly, not quickly, but in a cruel and dragging way, as if it wanted me to feel every moment before it claimed me. And I cursed it.
Why now? Why did death wait until this night, after everything, after all the bloodshed, betrayal, and loneliness? Why didn't it come sooner—when my heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces? When I was drowning in pain, lost in the hollow silence of my own broken soul? No. Death chose this moment, when I had somehow managed to hold a fragile thread of hope, to snatch it away.
I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, but my voice had long since gone silent.
I thought about the little things—the small, quiet moments I had always taken for granted, now suddenly precious beyond measure.
I thought about the stray cat I fed every morning, the one who waited patiently on the cracked steps outside my door, its ribs showing beneath a coat of patchy fur. I had never named her, never held her close, never really looked into her wary eyes. But I saw her in the mornings, and she saw me. We shared that silent companionship in the emptiness.
If I had known this night would be my last, I would have spent more time with that cat. I would have cupped her fragile body in my hands and whispered promises of safety and love, even if it was just for a moment. I would have traced her rough fur, and let her purr beneath my touch until the world stopped hurting for just a little while.
I thought about the garden I never tended properly—the dying roses by the window, the weeds choking the soil, the small patch of earth I had promised myself I'd make beautiful someday. I dreamed of sunlight streaming through the leaves, the scent of fresh earth after rain, and the warmth of life growing under my fingers. I thought about how much I wished I could have seen those roses bloom one last time.
If I had known I was dying, I would have knelt down and pulled those weeds with trembling hands, watered every thirsty stem, and watched the flowers grow. I would have taken that quiet joy, that small miracle of life, and held onto it like a lifeline.
I thought about my old notebooks, the pages filled with half-finished stories and shattered dreams. The words I had written in the hope that someone, someday, would understand the girl behind the pain. The girl who wanted to scream and laugh, to love and be loved, but was trapped beneath a mask of silence.
If I had known I wouldn't get to finish those stories, I would have written faster, harder, more honestly. I would have bled my soul onto the paper, so the world could see all of me—every scar, every tear, every broken piece.
I thought about the sunrises I had missed, too many mornings spent hiding from the world, afraid to face another day. How many times had I closed my eyes, wishing I could just disappear? Yet here I was, staring at the last sunset of my life, and the colors seemed cruel—too bright, too alive, mocking the emptiness inside me.
If I had known this was my last dawn, I would have watched the sky turn pink and gold, felt the warmth on my face, and promised myself I'd never take it for granted again.
I thought about the people I loved—and the ones who pretended to love me. The ones who betrayed me, whose smiles hid knives, whose hands pushed me further into darkness. Lisa, with her painted lips and false kindness. Nathan, whose promises turned to ash. I thought about how their faces blurred in the fading light, but their pain etched into my soul.
If I had known the depth of their betrayal, maybe I could have fought harder, trusted less, loved differently. Or maybe I wouldn't have cared at all.
I thought about my mother, the woman whose screams once filled these halls, whose strength I both admired and feared. The mother who had tried to protect me from a world that wanted to break us. I wished I could tell her I was sorry—that I loved her, despite everything. That I was grateful for every whispered lullaby, every hurried kiss on my forehead, every quiet sacrifice made in the dark.
If I had known this was the last time I'd see her face, I would have held her hand until my fingers went numb. I would have told her not to be afraid. Not to give up.
I thought about my own breath, shallow and quick, slipping through my lips like a fading whisper. I could feel the life slipping away, the darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. It was a slow, terrible surrender. My body was failing, but my mind clung desperately to the last shards of hope—hope for forgiveness, for love, for a second chance.
I cursed the silence that would follow me—a quiet so complete that no one would know I was gone. No tears, no mourning, no voices raised in remembrance. Just the echo of a life unlived, a story unfinished.
If I could speak, I would say I'm sorry—for all the moments I missed, for the love I didn't give, for the battles I lost and the wounds I hid.
If I could stay, I would.
But death is patient, and tonight it is here to claim me.
So I close my eyes, and let the darkness fold me in like a lover's embrace. I whisper goodbye to the night, to the broken dreams, to the fragile hope I held so tightly.
I whisper goodbye to the world.
And I wait for the silence.