Learning to Trust Again

(Not online, not behind a screen—this time, face-to-face… with shaking hands and quiet eyes)

Exams ended.

Not with celebration.

Not with relief.

Just… stillness.

Papers collected.

Pens tucked away.

Halls quiet again—

except the echo of my heartbeat

in this body that never quite rests.

Everyone else seemed free.

Joking about grades,

planning lunches,

smiling in ways I couldn’t match.

Me?

I carried something else.

Something exams couldn’t grade—

a weight pressed deep into my spine.

I tried to breathe.

Tried to walk like them.

Tried to blend in.

But nothing inside me moved

the way it used to.

At home,

I thought silence might help.

But silence

is never really silent

when your thoughts scream

louder than any noise could.

And then—

It happened.

A spilled glass.

A missed message.

I can’t even remember what sparked it.

But my dad

stormed in with fire in his mouth.

No questions.

No reason.

Just rage.

“Can’t you do anything right? You are useless. Idiot. You need to go to psychiatrist. Mad psycho.”

The words hit harder

than I thought they would.

Not because they were new—

but because I thought

I had finally done enough

to avoid this.

I stood still.

Frozen.

Like back then—

like when a stranger

sent me something that broke me,

and I said nothing.

Now here I was again.

Silent.

Because even when it’s not your fault,

you learn to apologize

just to survive.

“Sorry,” I whispered,

even though it wasn’t my mistake.

He walked away.

Just like that.

Angry storm,

quiet aftermath.

And me?

Left with eyes that burned

but refused to cry.

Because if I cried,

that would mean it still hurts.

And I didn’t want anything

to have that power over me anymore.

I am sorry Dad,

I wasn't

Good daughter for you ....

The next day,

I walked through university halls

with headphones in

and armor up.

No one knew

what had happened the night before.

No one ever does.

They just see the cold stare.

The distant girl.

The “quiet one.”

But inside?

There was a war.

And still—

I dropped my pen.

It rolled away.

And before I could get it,

a hand picked it up.

Someone stood in front of me.

Not threatening.

Not loud.

Just… kind.

“You dropped this.”

I looked up.

Nodded.

Took it.

Didn’t speak.

Not because I was rude—

but because I was tired of being open

only to be blamed.

At home.

Online.

Everywhere.

They tried again.

“You’re in Business Administration, right?"

I nodded again.

Still no words.

Still no warmth.

I had learned to protect myself

with silence.

They smiled anyway.

“That quiz was insane.

You looked like you had it all figured out, though.”

I shrugged.

Emotionless.

Stiff.

I could feel my heart pulling back,

as if screaming:

Don’t let them in.

Don’t trust too soon.

Don’t forget what happened.

Still, I replied.

"It was fine.”

Two words.

An entire wall.

An unspoken history

behind a blank face.

They hesitated.

Shifted their weight.

Then:

“If you ever want to study together,

I usually sit in the library, back corner.”

And they left.

No pressure.

No guilt.

Just an offer.

But I stood there

for a long time

after they were gone.

I couldn’t stop thinking:

Why am I like this?

Why can’t I just be friendly?

Why can’t I smile

like I used to

before people taught me

smiles mean weakness?

I wasn’t scared of them.

I was scared of myself.

Of trusting my judgment again.

Because the last time I trusted,

I ended up hating my own reflection.

And last night—

when my dad yelled,

when I said sorry for something I didn’t do—

that feeling came back.

That worthless, voiceless feeling

that told me:

You don’t matter.

You just cause problems.

Stay small. Stay quiet. Stay safe.

But that person at uni?

They weren’t cruel.

They weren’t fake.

They were just…

a person.

Being kind.

Trying.

And still—

I couldn’t give anything back.

That night,

I didn’t go to Discord.

I didn’t open my safe space.

I didn’t message my two long-distance friends—

the only ones who know the real version of me.

Because I didn’t want them to see

that I was slipping again.

That one harmless classmate

and one careless parent

could still undo me.

But I thought of them.

Of how they held me

in typed words and voice calls.

How they never blamed me.

How they never yelled.

How they saved me—

without even knowing my real name.

I missed them.

So much.

But I couldn’t message them tonight.

Because I couldn’t even understand myself.

I lay awake

and thought about the library.

About whether I’d see that person again.

About whether I’d ever sit beside them.

Say more than two words.

Share more than test scores.

And I wondered:

Is it betrayal

to let someone new in

when your heart still belongs

to people you’ll never meet in person?

I didn’t know.

I just knew I wasn’t ready.

But maybe one day,

I will be.

Maybe one day,

I’ll walk into that library.

Sit down.

Smile.

Not because I’m fixed—

but because I’m trying.

Because healing isn’t always loud.

Sometimes it looks like a quiet nod.

A pen picked up.

A breath not held.

And maybe…

that’s enough.

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