There’s a moment when childhood ends—
But it doesn’t come with a warning.
It creeps in quiet, like a slow fog rolling over everything you thought was solid.

For me, it started when I realized my mom wasn’t just tired.
She was drowning.
The woman who used to dance barefoot in the kitchen, singing Beach Boys and laughing like nothing could touch her… started disappearing. Not physically—but piece by piece. There were more days she stayed in bed. More silence. Less sparkle in her eyes. The TV stayed on, but the conversations didn’t.

I didn’t have the words for it yet, but I felt it in my chest.
I’d walk into the house and know—today’s one of those days.

At the same time, my dad was still grinding. Still showing up. But not in a way that I could feel.
He was providing, solving problems, keeping the machine running—but when you’re a kid falling apart inside, structure can feel like silence too. I didn’t know how to say, “I need you to just sit with me.”
And I don’t think he knew how to hear it even if I did.

So I started slipping.
Not crashing—just slowly folding in.

I started sneaking out. Started smoking. Started skipping school and showing up in places I had no business being.
Not because I wanted to rebel.
Because I didn’t know where else to exist.

It felt like the people around me were busy surviving their own pain, and I had no choice but to figure out mine alone.

Still, I kept writing.
Still talking to mirrors.
Still putting headphones on and vanishing into beats, pretending the world wasn’t closing in.

That was the first time I remember thinking:
If I don’t find something to hold onto, I’m gonna disappear too.

That’s Chapter 4.
Not the breakdown. Not yet.
Just the weight. The fog. The quiet unraveling.