Part. 1 Not every suicide is a headline. Some are whispers, stretched over years. Like forgetting to eat, again. Like letting the voicemail box stay full. Because you can’t bear to hear your name. Like declining invitations until... They just stop coming. Some suicides don’t end in blood. They end in isolation, In shrinking from joy like it’s fire. You become the ghost- Before your heart ever stops beating. Your presence fades. Like a photo left too long in sunlight. Mine didn’t come with a note— Just a thousand unspoken goodbyes. Every time I said “I’m tired,” I really meant “ I dont want to do this anymore.” Nobody ever asked the right questions. But they saw me breathing And they called it healing. I stopped dressing up. Stopped answering when someone said, “You okay?” Because I knew they didn’t want the truth— Only the performance. And I was too tired. To keep playing alive. They call it high-functioning depression, Like it’s a damn achievement.