Day seven.
A full week in this hospital.
All because I said I didn't want to be here anymore.
They called it a safety precaution.
I called it being locked up for nothing.
The room looked like every other one on the floor, white walls that felt too close, a window that technically opened but only a few inches, and a bed that smelled faintly of disinfectant no matter how many times they changed the sheets. Even the curtains were beige, like someone had tried to remove all personality on purpose.
Every morning blurred into the next: check-ins, questions that went nowhere, bandages, group therapy that felt more like sitting in silence with strangers. The nurses were polite, distant. Careful. Like I might break if they said the wrong thing.
I stopped counting the days when I realized the clocks here didn't mean anything.
But today, apparently, I'm being discharged.
One last conversation with the doctor. Then I can call my parents.
The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, the kind of sound you don't notice until the room goes quiet.
"Mirella Aliane?"
I look up.
"Yes."
Dr. Kai steps in, already glancing at my chart. He has thick glasses and a white coat that looks a size too big, like he borrowed it from someone more important.
"Good morning," he says, sitting down. "How are you feeling today?"
"Tired," I answer. Honest enough.
He nods like he expected that. "I'll keep this brief. You've shown improvement this week, and your evaluations indicate you're stable enough to return home with support."
Support. I don't ask what that means.
"Mirella," he continues, folding his hands, "you're still very young-"
"Eighteen next month," I say.
A small smile. "Right. Still young. Your brain is still developing. Emotions can feel overwhelming at this age, but that doesn't mean they'll always feel this intense."
He pauses, searching for words.
"With everything you've been dealing with."
I exhale. "You mean the cutting? Or my family?""
He clears his throat. "We try not to label it that way. It's a maladaptive coping behavior."
There it is. The professional version of the same sentence
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, apologetic
"I'm sorry," he says, standing. "I've been called to another patient. You'll find my contact details in your discharge papers if you need anything."
And then he's gone
His footsteps fade down the hall
For the first time all week, the room is quiet enough that I can hear my own breathing.
I should feel relieved.
I don't
I finally arrived home after the long car ride with my parents.
The car ride home is long and silent. No music No questions , Just the hum of the road and my mom gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.
I hold Goose against my chest, fingers pressed into the worn fabric. He still smells faintly like the hospital, like soap and something sharp I can't name.
The house looks the same when we pull up. Neat Quiet, and Normal.
Inside, the walls are lined with family photos , my sister smiling at awards ceremonies, trophies polished and centered. I'm in a few pictures too, usually at the edge, half out of frame.
My dad sighs as he sets his keys down. "Try not to make this harder than it has to be."
My mom forces a smile. "We'll talk later, okay? I'll start dinner."
No one asks how I'm feeling.
My sister passes by me in the hallway and leans in close. "That didn't last long," she mutters. "Guess they didn't keep you."
I don't reply. I just go to my room and close the door.
The bed creaks as I sit down. Blue sheets. Same as always.
I open my laptop. There's only one person I want to hear from.
Solene.
"Hey," I say when she answers, trying to sound like myself.
Her face looks tense. "Hey Mirella."
Something in her tone makes my stomach drop.
"What?" I ask. "What happened?"
She hesitates. "Have you,.. checked the school gossip page?"
My chest tightens. "No."
I click anyway.
@RobbinsTellsAll
And there I am.
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@RobbinsTellsAll
Player #8 taking a little break 🏥
Heard she checked into the psych ward this week.
Guess volleyball got too intense.
Hope she's feeling better 😬
#player8 #drama #mentalhealth #attention
_______________________________________
The post already has dozens of likes. Comments are piling in, laughing emojis, fake sympathy, people tagging each other.
Someone posted a screenshot from practice
Someone zoomed in on my wrists
My throat closes.
Solene's voice comes through the speakers, quiet and rushed. "Mirella, please don't read the comments."
But I already am.
The room smells suddenly like disinfectant again. Like the hospital. Like I never really left
I close the laptop.
It doesn't matter.
Everyone's already seen it.
And silence won't make it disappear.