As always, I sat with dreams in hand,

Books beside, hopes strong and grand.

A smile that bloomed like morning sun,

Determined this time, I’d be the one—

To rise above, to claim my place,

To beat the pride in her precious face.

Then came a beep, so soft, so light,

A message blinked in the quiet night.

“Hey,” it said, from someone new—

A stranger’s name, a face untrue.

And since my heart was open wide,

I let him in—I never lied.

It felt so warm, that friendly tone,

I thought, finally, I’m not alone.

We laughed a bit, we shared a meme,

I smiled like life was just a dream.

Just a little chat, just for a while,

What harm could come from such a smile?

But darkness often comes in peace,

Wrapped in charm, it whispers “please.”

And monsters wear a human face,

Their words a trap, their tone a lace.

He asked me then, in playful glee,

“Can I send something? Trust in me.”

I paused a beat, unsure, unsure—

But my heart was lonely, craving more.

I told myself, I’m not a kid,

“I’m grown enough,” that’s what I did.

It’s harmless, I thought, just one small thing,

But oh, the weight that it would bring.

It came so fast—no warning sign—

A picture dark, obscene, unkind.

It wasn’t art. It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t love—it stole my light.

It was him, exposed, without regret.

And now that image—I can’t forget.

I froze. I stared. My heart beat wild.

No words escaped this broken child.

I felt so sick. I looked away.

I closed the app. I tried to pray.

But prayers don’t work when shame is loud,

And guilt wraps round you like a shroud.

He called—again, without a name.

No face, no light, just sickening shame.

I hit decline. I screamed, “Enough!”

But he just smirked—his voice too rough.

“Sorry,” he typed, as if it’s okay,

“Didn’t mean to scare you… Can we still play?”

Play? Play with what? My trust? My soul?

He broke what once was nearly whole.

I shook. I shattered. I lost the floor.

I wasn’t me—not anymore.

I couldn’t speak. My hands went cold.

My breathing sharp, my courage sold.

The screen still glowed—a haunting blue,

I closed my eyes, but saw it too.

I whispered low, through stinging eyes,

“This is my trauma… second rise.”

Because this wasn’t the first time pain

Had dressed up sweet and come again.

I couldn’t tell my friends—not now.

They warned me once, they’d raise their brow.

“Don’t talk to strangers,” they had said.

But I was curious, lost instead.

I feared their rage, I feared their blame—

I feared they'd say I earned the shame.

So I turned to strangers once again,

But this time, not the type to send

Horrors wrapped in smiling text—

I found kind hearts on Discord next.

Not heroes, no—but they were there.

They didn’t judge, they chose to care.

I told them parts—just a few small bits,

How trust can stab and joy can split.

And maybe soon I’ll write it all—

The chapters where I dared to fall.

But not today. Not just yet.

Today’s still filled with cold regret.

Why did I say yes? Why trust so fast?

Why does the shadow always last?

Why must the color still remain?

Why can’t I wash away the stain?

Have I become what I once feared?

Impure, broken, no longer revered?

I try to cry, but tears don’t come.

Just silence in my bedroom hum.

I want to shout, I want to scream,

But all I do is play the dream—

Pretend I’m fine, pretend I smile,

Pretend I’ve walked away this mile.

Because how can I face the ones I know?

How can I tell them what brought me low?

They’ll say I asked, they’ll say I lied,

They’ll miss the girl who nearly died.

So here I sit, alone, betrayed—

A broken game I never played.

Congrats to him—he had his win.

He reached through wires and scarred my skin.

He left me numb, afraid, and cold,

A story dark, a pain retold.

I was a pawn, a name erased—

Now silence is the mask I wear in place.

No, I didn’t want this, I never did.

No child dreams of being rid

Of safety, joy, or light or grace—

All stolen by an unseen face.

He played the game. I bore the shame.

Now all I have is guilt and name.

So here begins my tale of pain,

The second season, not in vain.

Because I will write, I will confess—

Though darkness sits upon my chest.

Maybe not now, but soon they’ll see,

The strength it took to still be me.

(For the younger hearts who helped me breathe again)

They said they’d always be around,

those younger hearts with old souls.

I didn’t expect that to mean forever—

because I’ve heard promises before.

From voices that stayed long enough

to leave echoes, not presence.

Still…

Still I believed them.

Because their kindness wasn’t loud.

It didn’t come with fireworks or drama.

It lived in the quietest places—

In late-night calls,

In a shared laugh during chaos,

In a simple:

“Hey, how are you holding up?”

when I didn’t even realize I was drowning.

They didn’t know my whole story.

I didn’t tell them the full truth.

Not yet.

But somehow…

they understood enough to care anyway.

And their presence—

Oh God, their presence—

held me like no hug ever did.

You see, I was still bleeding

from something no one could see.

From a message

that changed my entire idea of safety.

A stranger. A screen.

A friendly “hi” that turned

into a twisted memory I couldn’t delete.

He sent me something vile.

Something sickening.

A picture—

his own, exposed, disgusting.

His pride.

My horror.

I felt impure,

shattered into invisible pieces

no one knew how to pick up.

Even I didn’t.

And every night since,

it haunted me.

Even after I blocked him.

Even after I screamed into my pillow.

Even after I tried to forget.

But forgetting doesn’t happen

just because you want it to.

Images burn deeper than memories.

They brand your innocence

with shadows.

I couldn’t tell my friends.

They had warned me not to talk to strangers.

They would be mad.

They would say,

“I told you so.”

Even if they didn’t mean to hurt me,

their words would have cut

what little strength I had left.

So I turned to Discord.

To people who didn’t know my past,

who didn’t see my shame.

And there—

in the least expected corner of the internet—

I found people who made the darkness

a little less heavy.

People who didn’t know what they were healing

but healed me anyway.

They were younger than me.

Still figuring life out.

But their kindness…

God, their kindness…

felt older than time.

Softer than pain.

Stronger than fear.

They joked.

They talked about silly things—

games, anime, songs, life,

their crushes, their awkward school moments.

And just listening to them

became therapy.

Just sitting there,

muted on a call,

while they laughed about the dumbest things—

was enough to stitch

some of my wounds shut.

They don’t know

that it was them

who pulled me back from those nights

when I would see that image in my head

and feel dirty again.

When I would close my eyes

and hear his voice asking,

“Are we still okay?”

after violating me.

They don’t know

how their late-night rants,

their chaos,

their group laughter,

gave my soul a chance to breathe.

I never told them.

I couldn’t.

Because I didn’t want them

to carry the weight

they never asked for.

I don’t want to become

someone they feel guilty for leaving.

They’re growing up.

They’re healing.

They’re finding people who love them back.

They’re building homes in others’ hearts—

homes I’ll never be a part of,

but homes I’ll always be happy exist.

And me?

I stay here.

A little older.

A little quieter.

Still smiling through the background.

Still cheering them on

from the other side of the screen.

I sit on calls and listen.

They laugh.

I laugh too—

but mine always lingers

a few seconds longer.

A little heavier.

Because I know—

I’m just a chapter in their story.

They are the whole book in mine.

I wish—

I truly wish—

I could tell them,

“You helped me stay alive.

You helped me feel okay

after someone made me feel like dirt.”

“You gave me peace

after I was violated

by a stranger’s pride

and my own silence.”

“You made it possible

to stop shaking at night.

To breathe again.

To not feel like I needed to punish myself

for what someone else did to me.”

But I won’t.

Not because I don’t want to.

But because they deserve to walk forward

without looking back.

One day, they’ll get older.

Graduate.

Fall in love.

Marry.

Start families.

Forget our server.

Forget my voice.

Forget those nights

we laughed at memes

and cursed lagging WiFi.

And I’ll smile.

From behind the screen.

Send them a blessing.

Cry a little.

But only in poems like this.

Because that’s my love language:

Staying silent

when I want to scream,

“I love you for saving me.”

Letting go

before they realize

they meant too much.

Being the river—

always moving,

always holding,

never crossed.

That’s me.

And they?

They’re the reason

the monster in my memory

doesn’t win anymore.

They’re the warmth

that replaced the horror.

The light

that filled the gap

he tried to leave empty.

So even if they never know—

even if I fade from their story—

just know,

if by some miracle they read this one day…

I meant it.

Every silent thank you.

Every invisible hug.

Every breath they gave me

just by existing.

I’ll stay in the background.

But I’ll love them forever.

(When silence feels like a second heartbreak, what will happen when they will left me and find something beautiful in their life?)

It’s quiet now.

Not the kind of quiet that heals—

Not peaceful, not gentle—

But the kind of quiet that buzzes

like static in your chest,

like memories trapped inside your walls

that won’t stop echoing.

They’re gone.

Not in a dramatic exit,

not in anger,

not even in finality.

Just… gone.

Slipped slowly

into a chapter I wasn’t written into.

They didn’t slam the door—

they just drifted away

so gently

that I didn’t even notice

until the silence got too loud.

And it hurts.

Not the kind of pain that rages.

But the kind that sits heavy in your bones

like old weather.

The kind that turns up when the notifications stay dark,

when the server is quiet,

when your screen glows but no one says your name anymore.

I still hear their laughter.

I still remember the sound of their typing,

the dumb jokes that made no sense,

the “Hiyo! u good?” at 3 a.m.

just because they noticed I was still online.

They were my comfort.

The reason I didn’t spiral

after that stranger invaded my peace.

The ones who, unknowingly,

stitched me back together

with each chaotic meme and

each half-serious “take care, fr.”

And now?

Now it’s just me.

Reading messages that no longer move.

Scrolling through chats

that used to light up like fireflies

and now look like abandoned houses.

They didn’t leave with big goodbyes.

There was no final moment.

Just slower replies,

shorter texts,

until it felt like I was messaging into a canyon

with no echo coming back.

And I get it.

I really do.

Life moves on.

People grow.

They find new friends,

new routines,

new places to call home.

But it doesn’t stop it from hurting.

It’s like watching a balloon drift into the sky.

You let go for one second—

and suddenly, it’s gone.

Not because it wanted to hurt you.

But because you just couldn’t hold on tight enough.

Some nights,

I still open the server.

Not to talk.

Just to look.

To pretend.

To remember how it used to feel

when I had a place among them.

They were younger than me—

but they made me feel seen.

Understood.

Like I wasn’t just surviving,

but maybe, slowly, healing.

And now…

I feel like I lost that light again.

So I fill the silence.

With music that knows how I feel.

With writing.

With words that hug the parts of me

no one asks about anymore.

I sit with the ache.

Let it burn.

Then let it rest beside me.

Because it’s mine now.

Some nights,

I still scroll up.

Back to the silly chaos.

Back to the random voice calls,

the playlists we made,

the nights we said, “brb” and never really came back.

I don’t message them.

I want to.

But I don’t.

Because I know—

they’ve moved on.

And my sadness doesn’t fit

in the life they’re building now.

They’re probably smiling somewhere.

Sending memes to someone new.

Laughing in a group call

with people who make their heart feel safe.

And I’m happy for them.

I really am.

But I can’t lie.

There’s a hole where they used to be.

I loved them quietly.

Not romantically.

Not obsessively.

Just… purely.

As someone who found hope

in voices I never saw,

but trusted more than anyone.

And now,

I send my love in the softest way:

Through poems like this.

Through blessings I whisper

when I see their profile picture still there,

but never green again.

I forgive them.

For not needing me anymore.

For healing.

For finding joy where I couldn’t follow.

That’s what I do.

That’s always what I do.

I stay.

Even after they leave.

I keep the room clean

in case they ever come back.

Keep the light on

in case they get lost and need warmth again.

But I don’t expect them to.

Not anymore.

Because I’ve learned—

Sometimes people are only chapters,

not the whole book.

Sometimes love means

letting someone grow

beyond the space you held for them.

So I grow too.

Alone.

Slowly.

In silence.

I’m learning to fill the space they left.

Not erase it—

but honor it.

With playlists that carry our memories.

With words I never said out loud.

With quiet that doesn’t always punish me.

Sometimes it still stings.

Of course it does.

But sometimes,

it feels peaceful.

To know I had something real,

even if only for a season.

And if by some strange miracle,

they ever read this—

if they ever find these words

buried in the folds of the internet—

I hope they know

they mattered.

That they saved someone

without even knowing it.

That their kindness

was the one soft place

in a life full of sharp corners.

And that even now,

after they’ve gone,

after they’ve become ghosts

in the house of my memory—

I love them.

From a distance.

In a poem.

In silence.

Because that’s how I love:

I stay,

even after they leave.