She doesn’t exist. Not in any way that matters, anyway. 

She spent years convincing herself that if she just tried harder, spoke softer, smiled more, stayed quiet when needed, someone would love her. That if she held on long enough, the loneliness would fade, like winter eventually giving way to spring. But seasons change for everyone else. Not for her. Never for her. 

The days stretch, identical and suffocating, until time becomes meaningless. Wake up. Breathe. Pretend. Sleep. Repeat. Each action mechanical, each second heavier than the last. Sometimes, she wonders if her body is a tomb where her soul is buried inside, waiting for something to pull her out. But no one comes. The weight of her own existence feels like a burden that no one will ever see, no one will ever lift.

She’s tired of waiting for things to get better, of trying to find hope in the darkness. Her every effort seems futile. She could disappear today, walk into the ocean, step off the highest rooftop, and the world wouldn’t even notice. There would be no ripple, no aftermath, no impact. She is invisible, a fleeting moment in time, so small that even the thought of her disappearing seems insignificant. The only proof she was ever here would be a few missing footsteps, a fleeting memory in someone’s mind, but even those would fade with the passing days.

The world moves around her, and she moves along with it, but always a step behind, always a shadow of who she was supposed to be. She tries small tests, just to confirm what she already knows.

She stops responding to messages. Her phone never vibrates. It’s as if she was never there at all.

She skips work for a week. No one asks why. No one calls. The silence is deafening, the absence of concern louder than any noise. She could be gone for days, weeks, and no one would care.

She stands on a busy street corner, staring into the faces of the people passing by, each one absorbed in their own world, unaware of her. She looks for something, anything, a flicker of recognition, curiosity, concern. But they all move around her like water around stone. No one notices. No one sees her, and she begins to wonder if she even exists.

The realization settles in slowly, but when it does, it feels like a final blow. She could scream, and the world would stay silent. She could fall to the ground, writhing in pain, and the people would step over her, unbothered, uninterested, unaffected. She could disappear, and the world would carry on.

One night, she doesn’t turn on the lights. She lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her own breathing, the slow rhythm of her pulse. She presses her fingers against her wrist, feeling the faint, steady pulse. Proof of life. But for what? Why does her body insist on keeping her here, trapped in a life she no longer wants to live?

The emptiness inside her grows wider, deeper, more suffocating. She closes her eyes, imagining the different ways it could end. The knife in the kitchen drawer. The bridge she walked past last week. The pills lined up in the bottle by the sink. Each one an exit, a door waiting to be opened, an escape from the prison she's forced to live in.

But none of them feel like enough. None of them feel like the right way. Until she understands that there is no “right” way. There’s only the end. The finality that will lift her from this suffocating existence, this existence that doesn’t feel like hers anymore.

Her thoughts shift, not to the methods, but to the inevitability of it all. She doesn’t need to die. She already has. Somewhere, between all the pretending, between the forced smiles and the hollow conversations, somewhere between the silence and the waiting, the last part of her that ever mattered burned out. She is nothing now. A body without a soul, a name without a person. She moves through life like a ghost, without direction, without purpose. She can speak, walk, function, but she is gone. And no one will notice.

She thinks about the people in her life, the ones who were supposed to care, the ones who might have noticed, but she knows that they are as disconnected from her as she is from herself. Even if they saw the cracks in her façade, even if they glimpsed the desperation behind her eyes, it wouldn’t matter. They would move on. They always do. That's how they said that the world works. 

That night, she doesn’t pick up the phone. She doesn’t leave a note. There is no dramatic farewell, no plea for help, no wish for any closure. There’s only her, lying in the stillness, surrounded by darkness, as she finally takes the step she’s been too afraid to take for so long.

She reaches for the bottle of pills, her hand trembling just slightly. It’s not fear. It’s a surrender. She feels a strange calm as she unscrews the cap and stares at the pills. The very thing that has the power to take it all away. The idea that she could end the torment, the numbness, the loneliness, all at once, it’s too tempting. Too final.

As she swallows the pills, one after another, her vision begins to blur, and she feels a warmth spread throughout her body, her limbs growing heavy. It doesn’t hurt. It’s like falling into a deep, warm sleep, the kind where you can never wake up. The kind where everything is quiet. Where there’s no need to pretend, no need to smile, no need to exist.

But as she feels the darkness closing in, something shifts. For the first time, the thought crosses her mind, maybe someone would have cared. Maybe someone would have looked at the empty space she left behind and wondered what happened. Maybe there was someone, somewhere, who would have tried to save her if they had known. But that thought vanishes, slipping away, leaving only the void.

And in the end, all she is, all she ever was, is gone. No one will ever know. Not that it would matter anymore anyway. 

      -The end

A Name Without a Person || Zunaida Arjumand Jacqueline

Zunaida Arjumand Jacqueline is a 19-year-old high school graduate with a profound love for creative writing. She finds solace and inspiration in weaving stories that resonate with emotions and ideas, aiming to connect deeply with her readers. Passionate about storytelling, Zunaida is dedicated to exploring new narratives and pushing the boundaries of her craft. With a relentless drive for excellence, she is determined to make her mark in the world of writing, leaving a lasting impact through her words.