New Girl Dark

People used to call me a demon. Not because I hurt others… but because I could see things nobody else wanted to see. The sadness behind fake smiles. The emptiness hidden inside love. The quiet presence of death following everyone like a patient shadow. And him… he looked like an angel. He always appeared when my mind became too loud. Sitting beside me in empty hallways, smoking in silence while the rest of the world kept pretending life was beautiful. He understood my exhaustion without asking questions. And I became addicted to that feeling. We were never lovers. That would have been easier. We were friends so painfully close that our feelings rotted into something impossible to name. I needed him to survive myself. And he needed me to feel real. We spent nights talking about death like it was an old friend waiting for us somewhere in the dark. About loneliness. About how painful it was to exist when you felt everything too deeply. Sometimes he looked at me like he wanted to save me. ...

There are nights when I wonder if friendship is just another human invention created to survive loneliness. Something beautiful made for lucky people who were born easy to love. I watch people laugh together in cafés, sharing secrets as if their hearts have permanent homes inside each other. I observe them the way abandoned children stare at warm windows during winter. Carefully. Quietly. From the outside. Because I have never understood what it feels like to trust someone without preparing myself for the moment they disappear. Other people speak about friendship as if it were oxygen. Natural. Safe. Eternal. But to me, people have always been temporary weather. They arrive with warmth in their voices and promises in their eyes, only to slowly become distant ghosts wearing familiar faces. And after enough disappointments, I started asking myself terrible questions. Maybe I am too much. Too quiet. Too intense. Too broken. Maybe people can sense the sadness in my bones the same way animal...

At the beginning, I wasn’t afraid. That’s what hurts the most to remember. I used to walk freely, trusting people, believing in that naïve idea that if you are kind, the world might be kind back. And him… he seemed to fit perfectly into that belief. He was gentle, attentive, the kind of person who makes you lower your guard without even noticing. We talked like friends. Or at least, that’s what I thought. I never saw the change coming. There was no clear signal, no exact moment when everything broke. It was something quieter… something slower… something far more dangerous. It started with small things. Messages at all hours. Constant questions. A need to know where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. At first, I ignored it. I thought it was just intensity, maybe he needed attention. But that feeling… that small discomfort growing in my chest… never left. It grew. Until one day, I understood it wasn’t friendship anymore. It was control. I tried to walk away the simplest way possibl...