TW. I went to the kitchen and took the coffee mug you'd gifted me a few months back. I thought to break it into pieces hoping that would probably calm me down. (...) The first time I saw the words you'd written for me, I had a mumbled laugh. It felt like you'd striped me in front of a crowd. It's been 22 months now, and I still remember each word you used to label me as a carcass, or something dirtier that stank like death. I went to the kitchen and took the coffee mug you'd gifted me a few months back. I thought to break it into pieces hoping that would probably calm me down. My parents would wake up, I thought. How would I explain to them? Why did I do it? Would I name it an accident? I wasn't in a mood to lie. I kept the mug back. I saw the kitchen knife beside it, picked it up and placed on my wrist. The steel felt cold against my skin. My hands were shaking, my mouth was salty. The veins in my head were thumping. Something in my head was buzzing continuously. I couldn't do it. I kept the knife back and went to the bathroom. I looked at my face on the mirror there, for a couple of minutes, or hours, I don't remember now. I remember my eyes though. They were getting reddish, and teary. I remember telling myself "No, no, no, I can't cry. It's not my fault that you slut-shamed me in front of almost 200 people I know. Your words don't make me one." The faces of my juniors whom I was teaching during my last year, the faces of my seniors and classmates whom I was yet to see in college the next day, the faces of my professors, kept coming back to my mind." No, no, NO!" I didn't realise when I screamed.
