A Plea from the Edge of Silence
That morning the room swallowed me whole.
Soft light slipped through the curtain, peaceful, mocking the storm inside my chest.
The bandage on my forehead was nothing—
the real wound was the sudden rip:
one second I belonged to life,
the next I was falling out of it.

Everything certain turned to ash.
Doctors walked on eggshells, words like “prognosis” and “wait” landing like stones.
I nodded.
But inside screamed one question:
Will I ever be me again?
Visitors faded.
Messages dried up.
When the door clicked shut each night,
loneliness grew a voice—low, endless, cruel.
I didn’t want speeches or promises.
I just needed a thread, thin as breath,
connecting me to someone, anyone.

So I took a scrap of cardboard and wrote,
shaking:
“Can you pray for my life?”
Not for show.
Not for pity.
Just… stay with me.
Hold my name in your heart for one second.
For believers, prayer builds bridges across impossible distances.
For everyone else—
it’s still love wearing different clothes:
a quiet wish, a remembered face, a moment of warmth sent into the cold.
You don’t know me.
I’ll never know your name.
But if right now you pause…
if you whisper hope for a stranger fighting to stay alive…
then this room is no longer a tomb.
I’m not alone.
Thank you.
From the deepest place I have left.