In the Booth
A quiet descent into despair, vulnerability, and the moment where asking for help becomes unbearable.
Inspired by the image—prompt shared by Labyrinthia Mythweaver, tagged by HVR
I am in the booth,
alone.
The silence clings to my skin,
like a second skin of lead.
The air—rare—
falls like dripping gutters.
The legs of my heart tremble,
vulnerable—
its burdens too heavy:
crushing despair,
shame,
helplessness,
and anxiety that comes
to violently judge
my own worth.
With a trembling hand,
I pull out
a coin.
And my mind wonders:
How can something so small
weigh so much?
I tried to hold it with both hands,
but I was shaking so badly
I thought
I would drop it.
A number dialed,
so quickly—
as if time
had frozen.
One ring.
Two.
Three—
no answer.
And I started again.
Another number.
Biiip.
Biiip.
Biiip…
With every sound,
I hear my heart
breaking.
Into a thousand pieces.
My pride,
my worth,
my sense of self—
crushed.
I didn’t want to continue,
but I did.
Until, on the other end,
someone finally chose
to answer.
A familiar voice,
understandable—
but with every word,
my heart bled
liters.
The connection dropped.
But I couldn’t leave
the booth.
Not completely.
I am still in the booth.
Author’s Note
This piece is rooted in a real moment.
A crossing.
A call I didn’t want to make.
A weight I didn’t know how to carry.
Some parts of us don’t leave those moments.
They stay quietly long after we’ve moved on.
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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.