I was lying on my bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hands folded behind my head, when SHE came in. A friend I knew like the back of my hand. Without a word, she took my hand and led me to the BACKROOM. A room filled with books, yet can't be called a library. In this place some books are well organized and easily accessible, others are dusty and hidden away. New ones show up uninvited. It’s a vast room, wide enough to get lost in if you wander too far. A room so fragile and thin. It's mostly quiet, but sometimes it roars so loud you can’t even hear your own thoughts. We arrived in no time. She let go of my hand and gently sat me down on a dusty pile of books. Then she said, TO BE OR NOT TO BE that’s all Shakespeare said, yet he created a masterpiece. I was still trying to comprehend what she had just said, she continued: “Should I give it my all or let it all go? Should I react or stay silent? If I ignore the hurt, they say I’m heartless. If I respond, they say I’m too much. If I pour myself out, I’m afraid of what I’ll become…” And right then, I knew exactly where she was going. But I couldn't say a word. “I feel lost,” she whispered. “I never get angry at anyone… only at myself. And the worst part? I don’t even know who I am anymore.” The silence that followed was filled with unspoken pain. I reached for one of the dusty books beneath me, its cover blank, its pages untouched. I handed it to her. Then maybe it’s time,I said softly, to start writing again. She looked at me, confused. “Writing what?” Yourself. Not who they expect. Not who you've been trying to be. Just…..you. Even if the words come slowly, imperfect, lacking or even if the pages shake.When I turned to say something else, she was gone.All that remained was the open book