[VERSE 1] It’s late. The house makes those small noises it makes when everyone’s finished shouting. Pipes knock. A cupboard settles. Someone coughs in another room and then it’s quiet again. Streetlight hits the floor in one crooked rectangle. I keep stepping around it like it’s hot. Bare feet on the same bit of carpet I’ve worn down on nights like this. My school bag is in the corner. Inside there’s maths, an old sandwich wrapper, and a copy of my life in thin paper. “Presenting concerns.” “Resilience factor present.” “Stable for home environment.” They wrote “no immediate risk identified”. I can’t stop hearing that sentence in my head. My hands don’t care what it says. They shake anyway. I put my fingers on my own pulse just to check I’m still here. It’s too fast. Feels like it wants out. [HOOK] On your screen I’m a paragraph that says I’m okay for now. In this room I’m not. If you opened the file, you’d see my name and three neat lines. You wouldn’t see this carpet, this light, this feeling that something is about to give and it might be me. [VERSE 2] I sit on the edge of the bed, then stand up, then sit again. It feels like my bones don’t know where they belong. My chest hurts in that tight way that makes it hard to take a full breath. Not dramatic, just steady, like a hand pressing down. I think about tomorrow. Same bus. Same corridor. Caseworker asking, “Any thoughts about hurting yourself?” Voice careful, like stepping over glass. I already know what I would say: “No.” Because “yes” means more questions, more forms, more rooms where people talk about me while I stare at the floor. Another thought shows up, quiet and clear: what if there is no tomorrow? Everything inside me jumps once, like when you miss a step on the stairs. Then, for the first time all day, my head goes quiet. Hands stop shaking. Breathing evens out. The room looks sharper. Bed. Window. Bag in the corner. My name on the spine of a folder that has no place for this exact minute. [HOOK] On your screen I’m “future risk appears reduced”. Here, my future has shrunk to the space between now and whatever I decide next. If you read my notes you’d think I’m moving in the right direction. You’d never feel this sudden heavy kind of calm that only turned up when I stopped planning to stay. [BRIDGE] I’m not thinking about who says what after. I’m not picturing speeches or faces. I’m just tired. Tired in a way sleep doesn’t touch. My body feels lighter the moment I accept I might not have to do this again. No big drama. No big statement. Just the first quiet I’ve had in weeks and the thought that I could end it here without asking anyone’s permission. There is a part of me that wants to message someone, anyone, and say “I’m not okay”. There is another part that’s already turned the phone face down. Right now that part is stronger. [FINAL HOOK] Somewhere there’s a page that says “resilience factor present” in blue ink next to my name. In this room there’s a boy standing very still on worn-out carpet, feeling strangely calm because he has finally picked a direction, even if nobody would choose it for him. If anyone ever tries to understand how it got this far, they’ll look in the notes. They won’t find it. It’s here instead, in this last quiet stretch of night where I’m still breathing, still able to turn back, and already don’t want to.
