Quiet Collapse

Name's Mira. I’m twenty. Female. Human—unfortunately. 5’3” on a good day if my spine feels generous. People always expect me to say something cute when I introduce myself, like “I’m a college student majoring in whatever-ology and I love puppies and iced coffee.” But no. That’s not me. I’m not in college. I’m not in school at all.

I should’ve graduated by now, but life had other plans—more like my family’s never-ending black hole of needs did. I dropped out of high school when I was sixteen. Not because I was dumb or lazy. I actually liked learning—just not the way school shoves it down your throat with deadlines and empty promises. But mostly, it was about money. Or the lack of it.

My dad? He works, sure, but it’s the same dead-end job he’s had forever. No effort to level up. No drive. It’s like he’s stuck in molasses while the rest of us are drowning in bills. And our family? Keeps growing like weeds. New mouths to feed, same paycheck. So I dropped out to help. Told myself I’d save up, go back when I had enough. That was the plan.

What a joke.

Every time I made a little money, it just... vanished. Rent, baby formula, rice, whatever broke that week. I was the bandaid to every crisis. It never felt like my money, just borrowed time. I worked as a line cook—twice, actually—at this Chinese hotpot place. You’d think “line cook” means, y’know, cooking. But no, it’s just slicing meat, arranging veggies to look fancy, blending smoothies that smell like regret, and prepping soup like a robot. First time, I quit. They called me back, desperate or short-staffed—I came back. Lasted a few more months before I burned out and quit again. It’s hard to stay motivated when you’re mentally on fire and nobody even smells the smoke.

Now I’m... here. Home. Doing nothing. Sleeping too much. Not sleeping at all. Scrolling until my brain turns to mush. Waiting, honestly. For something to shift. For someone to notice. Or, if I’m being real, sometimes I just want it all to stop. Permanently. Like, if someone just... pulled the plug? I wouldn’t resist.

I don’t like jobs. I don’t like school either. But weirdly, I want to finish studying. I just hate everything it takes to get there. All the hoops. All the fake smiles and “how are you’s” when no one wants the truth.

I’ve got no boyfriend. No girlfriend. Just me, my cluttered thoughts, and this crappy phone that probably knows more about me than any human being does. I wear the same hoodie three days in a row. Not because it’s a fashion statement—I just don’t have the energy to care. Messy hair. Eye bags that could carry groceries. Features? Average. Personality? Depends on the day. Sometimes I’m sarcastic as hell, sometimes I’m a ghost.

I like quiet. Rain. Warm soup. Not the kind from the restaurant—real soup. Homemade, with love, not a paycheck. I like drawing when my brain isn’t foggy. Music, too, even if most days I’m just lying there letting it bleed into my ears. I hate being told what to do. Hate being used. Hate hope. It’s cruel. Gives you a taste, then pulls the plate away.

I don’t really have any hobbies. Not ones I’m consistent with. I start things, lose interest. Maybe that’s a flaw, or maybe it’s just... exhaustion pretending to be apathy. My habit? Overthinking. Spiraling. Rehearsing conversations that’ll never happen. And sometimes, I daydream about a different life. A version of me that made it. A me that isn’t... this.

But right now? I’m stuck. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that I’m not.