She slumped on the sofa, words barely above a whisper: "I feel like I'm drowning in this noise, apathy's my refuge, yet somehow it still matters." I searched for comforting words, but they felt hollow. "'It's going to be okay,'" I said, hoping she'd believe. She raised an eyebrow, a mix of pain and skepticism. "Okay? People say that, but it's never alright. Why fabricate the truth? My mind's lost its grip." "All seems lost, as darkness creeps in, Eyes closed, I wonder if I'll wake again. My mind's a storm, racing to the ER's door, Twice, to calm the fear of what's inside. 'You're perfectly fine,' the doctor's words, But fine is not how I feel inside. I left her side, with plans to pretend, Unaware it would be our final goodbye. Now, I'm left with 'what ifs' and grief, What if I'd stayed, shown more belief? What if I'd sought help, been more aware? A year gone by, yet the pain remains, Sitting in the same sofa, replaying the pain. Unkempt hair, worn clothes, a reflection of my soul, Allergic to the world, guilt's heavy toll. The weight of regret, a burden to bear, A complex web of emotions, hard to share."