When The Lines Begin To Blur

Later that night, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirtless, staring at my reflection.

I looked… empty.

Thin. Pale. Tired.

When was the last time I really ate?

When was the last time I even cared about myself?

I touched my ribs, clenched my jaw.

"This isn't me anymore," I whispered.

The boy staring back at me was a ghost—one I didn't want to become permanent.

That night, I made a silent promise to myself.

No more skipping meals.

No more lying in bed all day.

No more breaking down in the dark.

If no one was going to take care of me—

Then I'd do it myself.

The next day, I asked my dad if we still had dumbbells in the storage room.

He looked surprised, but said yes.

I started small—morning stretches, evening jogs, healthier food.

It was painful at first.

But pain?

Pain was something I was used to by now.

After a few weeks, my body felt stronger.

And little by little… so did my heart.

But my parents started noticing the change.

"You've been waking up early," my mom said one morning at breakfast, placing toast on the table.

"You're eating better," added my dad, glancing up from his paper. "And you've been working out. Is something going on?"

I paused, then gave a small shrug.

"Just working on myself," I replied quietly, not meeting their eyes.

My mom reached over and gently touched my hand—but didn't say a word.

That quiet support? It meant more than I could say.

They exchanged glances but didn't press further.

They understood.

Or maybe they didn't need to ask to see the truth.

Weeks passed.

I kept pushing myself—

Waking up early, running before sunrise, prepping my meals, lifting more, studying harder.

Each time I felt that familiar ache in my chest,

I trained harder.

Ate cleaner.

Focused deeper.

Pain had turned into fuel.

And slowly… people started to notice.

At school, classmates glanced my way more often.

Not because I was laughing or teasing like before—

But because I looked… different.

Stronger.

Quieter.

More focused.

"Dude, have you been working out?" one of the guys asked in P.E., nudging my shoulder.

I didn't say much. Just nodded.

Kept to myself.

Let my progress speak louder than my voice.

Even the teachers noticed.

"You're doing well in class," one said after a quiz. "But you seem distant lately."

"I'm fine," I replied.

Short. Calm. Enough.

But even with all the progress, the emptiness never fully disappeared.

It just got quieter.

At lunch, I sat with my friends when I felt like it.

Sometimes I ate alone, earbuds in, head down—

Not because I was lonely…

But because I was finally learning how to enjoy my own peace.

I was no longer chasing anyone.

Not her.

Not anyone else.

I was chasing myself—

The version I lost…

And the one I was determined to become.

After class, I stayed behind while everyone else filed out of the room, laughing and chatting like nothing had changed.

I didn't feel like joining them.

Not anymore.

I thought for a second… then made my way to the library.

It was quiet there.

No stares. No teasing. No memories echoing in the halls.

Just silence—

And books.

I found a spot in the far corner, where sunlight spilled like gold across the pages.

And for the first time in weeks… I felt like I could breathe.

This became my new routine.

While others joked in the cafeteria, I sat alone with my books.

While they hung out after school, I went home, changed, and trained.

People started to whisper.

"Yehoshua doesn't talk like he used to."

"He's always in the library now."

"Do you think he's okay?"

But I wasn't looking for concern.

I wasn't trying to be mysterious.

I was just… tired of pretending.

I didn't need a crowd.

I didn't need noise.

All I needed was my space—

And my silence.

And slowly, in that silence…

I started finding myself again.

I wasn't healed.

I wasn't whole.

But for the first time in a long time…

I was finally facing the mirror again.

And this time,

I didn't look away