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

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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.

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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.