Layout by: Mark Louie Pocot
Published by: Jadelynn Arnigo
Date Published: November 13, 2025
Time Published: 2:47 PM
Category: Prose
Theme: Emotional exhaustion and the loss of safe spaces
Home used to be a place I longed for. It wasn’t perfect, but it was familiar—the smell of breakfast in the morning, the sound of laughter that used to echo through the walls, the sense that no matter how bad the world got, I had somewhere to return to. But over time, it changed.
The laughter faded into arguments, the warmth turned into cold silence, and the walls that once protected me started to feel like they were closing in. Every conversation felt like a test, every glance a reminder that I didn’t quite belong. I learned to stay quiet, to keep my thoughts tucked away, to move carefully as if peace depended on how small I could make myself.
And so, school became my escape. It was the one place that made me forget. I looked forward to mornings, to the rush of getting ready, to the noise of the hallways that drowned out the stillness I left behind. For a while, it felt like breathing again. There were friends who made me laugh, teachers who made me feel seen, and moments that made the world a little softer. I built a version of myself there—someone lighter, happier, someone who didn’t flinch at every word. I told myself, as long as I’m here, I’ll be fine.
But then, slowly, that changed too. The people around me started to feel different. The laughter that once healed began to sting. The jokes turned sharp, the smiles turned fake, and the silence in between became unbearable. Suddenly, the hallways felt too loud, the classrooms too tight. Every interaction felt forced; every day another performance of pretending to be fine. The very place I once ran to for peace began to drain me, piece by piece, until I couldn’t tell which place hurt more—home or school.
The people I used to call friends began to feel like strangers wearing familiar faces. Some judged quietly, others spoke loudly when they thought I couldn’t hear. It’s strange how people can sit beside you every day and still not see you at all. The whispers, the looks, the small moments of exclusion—they pile up like invisible bruises no one bothers to notice. And the teachers, though kind in their own ways, never really see the exhaustion behind forced smiles or the tremble in the voice that says “I’m okay.”
Now, I walk through both worlds like a ghost. At home, I’m too tired to talk. At school, I’m too tired to pretend. I’ve mastered the art of looking fine—of smiling at the right moments, laughing when expected, keeping everything that aches tucked deep inside. But some nights, when it’s finally quiet, the truth hits harder: I have nowhere left that feels safe. The escape has become another cage, and every day feels like choosing between two prisons that wear different names.
Sometimes I catch myself longing for something I can’t quite name—a place, a feeling, a peace that feels real. I wonder if maybe I outgrew the idea of safety, or if the world just stopped offering it. Because when home feels cold and school feels suffocating, you start to question if you’ll ever belong anywhere at all.
So I stay, caught in between, doing what I’ve always done—surviving. Hoping that one day, I’ll find a place that doesn’t drain me, a place that lets me breathe again. Until then, I carry the weight of both worlds on my shoulders, pretending I don’t feel it breaking me slowly from the inside. Because maybe I am the hallway between them—never fully home, never truly safe, just stuck somewhere in between doors that never open.
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