Page 4 of Shy Girl

This is when I usually crawl into bed for my nightly cry. It is not the dramatic kind. There are no sobs, no gasping for air. It’s quieter than that; measured, like a leaking faucet. The tears come slowly, silently, rationed as though I fear one day they’ll run out. I wipe them away with the edge of the pillowcase, careful to keep my breathing even, the act as much a part of my routine as brushing my teeth.

MIA BALLARD17

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But tonight, instead of reaching for the tissue box, I reach for my phone.

The red icon ofSDForMe.comlights up the screen, a small glowing symbol of the choice I made. My thumb hovers for a moment before I press, the app opening to reveal two messages. My first messages.

The first is from Nathan. He is forty-eight years old. I like that number, the roundness and evenness of it. His profile picture a curated kindness: salt-and-pepper hair, a smile that suggests he is safe, dependable, boring.

His message is polite, almost clinical:

Hi, Gia. I’d love to meet you for coffee sometime. Let me know if you’re interested.

I reply quickly, my fingers moving before I’ve had a chance to second-guess:

Hi. Thank you for the message. I’d love to meet for coffee sometime. :)

The smiley face is purposeful. Flirty, but not desperate. I press send. My chest tightens immediately, the weight of crossing a line I can’t uncross settling heavily in my ribcage.

The second message waits, its subject line deceptively casual:Hey, beautiful.

I hesitate, then tap it open. My stomach drops. The profile picture loads slowly, and when it does, I see a man older than Nathan, with thinning hair and round glasses. He looks like my father. My actual father.

I close the message without reading further, my hands trembling. The delete button feels like a lifeline, but even after I press it, the image stays burned into my brain.

SHY GIRL18

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I used to think about killing myself like it was something I might get around to eventually, like folding laundry or cleaning out the fridge. Not in a big, dramatic way—not the kind that you dangle in front of a therapist to see if they’ll flinch. It was quieter than that, more practical. A passing thought, casual and constant, like a low hum in the background, like a draft slipping under a door.

One time, I lined up a bottle of my prescription Xanax on the bathroom counter. Popped off the childproof cap, tipped the pills out into a neat, glinting row. The little white tablets gleamed under the light, each one a promise of nothingness. I thought about swallowing all them, one by one. I imagined the ritual of it, the finality. But even then, I hesitated. It felt messy, unpredictable. What if it didn’t work? What if I just ended up in the hospital, hooked up to tubes, everyone looking at me like I was a failed experiment?

I couldn’t bear that—being alive, but worse.

That thought was worse than dying, so I put the pills back in the bottle, screwed the cap on tight, and tucked it back into the medicine cabinet. Left it there like a secret, something I might revisit later.

That was years ago, before I got fired. Having my job helped with those thoughts. It gave me rules to follow. People relied on me. Deadlines, spreadsheets, a reason to set my alarm. It gave my life the illusion of structure, and I clung to it like a raft in open water, it held me up like scaffolding.

But the job was a mask, not a cure. It hid the cracks but didn’t fix them. I’ve been depressed far longer than I’ve been unemployed. The firing just stripped away the pretense, left me raw and exposed, with no one to perform for.

MIA BALLARD19

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Now, the pills are still in the cabinet. I know exactly where they are, tucked behind the expired cough syrup and half-empty bottle

of Advil. I don’t think about overdosing on them as much anymore. Not because I don’t want to disappear, but because I don’t trust myself to do it right.

I set the phone face down on the nightstand, its glow extinguished, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. The tears come, hot and slow, carving tracks down my temples. They pool in the hollow beneath my jaw, heavier than usual but quieter, somehow.

Tonight, the tears feel different. They are not despair, not hopelessness. They feel like something else entirely—something sharp and terrifying, carving space for whatever comes next.

FOUR

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