I used to think heartbreak was something that lasted for a few days. Maybe a few weeks if the love had been real. I believed people cried until they ran out of tears, picked themselves up, and continued living as if nothing had happened.
I was wrong.
Heartbreak doesn't disappear when the tears stop. It lingers in the smallest parts of your life. It follows you into the classroom, sits beside you during lunch, and waits for you when you get home. It steals your appetite, your sleep, your motivation, and eventually, the person you used to be.
Every morning became a battle.
The alarm would ring at six o'clock, but I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. My body felt heavy, as if someone had tied invisible chains around my arms and legs. I wasn't physically sick, but I couldn't find the strength to get up.
There were days when I wished time would simply stop.
I stopped fixing my hair before school. I no longer cared about the clothes I wore or whether they matched. The girl who once loved taking pictures with her friends had disappeared. Even my smile felt unfamiliar, like something I had borrowed from someone else.
At school, my classmates noticed the change.
"Are you sure you're okay?" one of them asked while we were working on a group activity.
I nodded without looking up.
"I'm just tired."
That answer had become my shield.
If I kept saying I was tired, maybe people would stop asking questions.
Maybe they wouldn't see how broken I really was.
During lunch break, I sat alone beneath the old mango tree near the back of the campus. It had always been my favorite place because it was quiet. Before everything happened, I used to bring books there and spend my free time reading.
Now, I simply stared into the distance.
Students laughed as they walked past me. Couples held hands without worrying about tomorrow. Friends shared jokes that made them burst into laughter.
I watched them from afar and wondered if I would ever laugh like that again.
My phone vibrated inside my pocket.
For a brief moment, my heart skipped a beat.
Old habits are difficult to forget.
Even after blocking him, a part of me still expected his name to appear on my screen.
Instead, it was a notification from my school reminding students about the upcoming examinations.
I sighed and locked my phone again.
Examinations.
I hadn't even opened my books.
That afternoon, our Mathematics teacher returned another set of quizzes.
She placed my paper on my desk without saying a word.
I slowly turned it over.
Thirty-two out of one hundred.
I blinked several times, hoping I had read it wrong.
But the number stayed the same.
A failing score.
Just months ago, I had been one of the students my teachers praised for my hard work. Now, I couldn't even recognize the handwriting on my own paper because I barely remembered answering the questions.
After class, I stayed behind while everyone else left the room.
I wasn't embarrassed because I failed.
I was afraid.
Afraid that this heartbreak wasn't only taking away my happiness.
It was taking away my future.
When I finally got home, I walked straight into my bedroom and closed the door behind me.
The silence welcomed me like an old friend.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the planner I had bought at the beginning of the school year.
On the first page, I had written my goals in colorful ink.
Graduate with honors.
Find a stable job.
Make my parents proud.
Travel to Japan someday.
I traced each sentence with my fingertips.
Those dreams had once felt so close.
Now they looked like wishes written by a stranger.
A tear landed on the page, smudging the ink.
I quickly wiped it away, but it was too late.
The words had already blurred.
Just like my future.
That evening, my mother knocked softly on my bedroom door.
"Dinner is ready."
"I'm not hungry," I answered.
"You've barely eaten all day."
"I'll eat later."
I heard her footsteps fade down the hallway.
A few minutes later, she returned with a plate of food and quietly placed it on my desk.
She didn't force me to eat.
She simply smiled and said, "Take care of yourself, okay?"
As soon as she left, I broke down crying.
I hated that I was worrying about the people who loved me.
I hated that I couldn't explain what was happening inside my heart.
Most of all, I hated that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to become the person I used to be.
That night, I stood by my bedroom window as rain began to fall.
The droplets raced each other down the glass, disappearing one after another.
I rested my forehead against the cool windowpane and whispered to myself.
"I hope tomorrow is easier."
It wasn't a promise.
It wasn't even confidence.
It was simply the smallest piece of hope I still had left.
Because somewhere deep inside me, beneath all the sadness and disappointment, there was still a tiny voice refusing to give up.
I just wasn't strong enough to listen to it yet.
