mori, my dear, everything will be okay

Mori’s abusive parents found his leaked diary. He’s hated at school.

TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR : suicide, teen angst, overdose, abusive parents, anxiety, emotional, death, bullies, bullying, and leaked diary







It was never something I was proud of. Pages filled with reminders of all the terrible things I went through, every dark moment, every painful memory. I had written about everything—my insecurities, my bitterness, my hatred, and all the embarrassing moments I tried to bury.

But buried within the pages were moments of light—those rare bursts of happiness that made me feel like life wasn’t completely awful. Those fleeting moments when I thought, maybe, there was a reason to keep going in a world that was too loud, too judgmental, too divided.

But they found it.

Now, all those fragments of myself—my pain, my struggles, my secrets—were laid bare for them to read. I couldn’t decide if I was angry, scared, or just defeated. There was nothing left to hide. My words, once the only thing that helped me make sense of the chaos inside my head, had now become weapons in their hands.

The truth was, I didn’t know what I wanted anymore. I was exhausted, suffocated by everything—the pressure to fit in, the constant judgment from every direction. And the diary… it had been the only place where I could release it all. But now, that small bit of comfort was taken away from me, and all I could do was wait for the fallout.

I glanced at the scattered pages around me—my diary, the one thing that had been my escape, now just crumpled remnants of my thoughts. I had poured so much into it—every tear, every smile, every piece of my soul. But now it felt meaningless. My father's words echoed in my mind, each one sharper than the last.

"You're wasting your time with this stupid diary," he had said, his voice laced with disgust. "You're lucky we even put up with you. Maybe then we wouldn't have to deal with your constant whining."

I could feel the weight of those words pressing on me, suffocating me. The air felt heavy, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was trapped in a room where no one could see me—not really. I wanted to scream, to make them understand, to let them see the parts of me that were never enough for them. But I knew it was pointless. They never had and they never would.

I ran my fingers over the crumpled pages, feeling the imprints of where my pen had dug into the paper. The ink blurred in spots where tears had stained the pages. I had trusted those words to capture my truth. But now, they had become a mockery.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the harsh, cutting thoughts swirling in my head. But they wouldn’t go away. They were relentless. My chest felt tight with the weight of it all—the years of pretending to be okay, of hiding every ounce of pain just to survive. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, like I was a ghost in my own life.

I looked out the window. The world outside was alive with color and movement, yet to me, it felt like a distant, unreachable place. The people passing by seemed so absorbed in their own worlds, unaware of the storm inside me. I longed to disappear, to escape it all, to not feel this heavy weight pressing down on me.

I opened the window slightly, letting the cold air rush in, biting at my skin. Maybe, if I stepped outside and just kept walking, I could leave all of this behind. Maybe the world would forget me. Maybe I could finally escape the weight of my own existence.

But the thought of leaving was just as terrifying as staying. The pain, the anger, the hopelessness—they were all too much to bear. But even so, I couldn’t let go of that faint spark of something. A tiny, stubborn part of me that refused to accept that this was the end. Maybe I wasn’t as broken as I felt. Maybe I was worth more than what my parents saw. But the fog of anger and sadness was so thick, I couldn’t see through it.

With a heavy sigh, I closed the window, cutting off the world outside for just a little longer. I needed to think, to make sense of the storm in my mind, but all I could hear were their words. "You're pathetic." "Grow up." I wanted to disappear, to be anything but the disappointment they saw me as. The weight of their judgment felt like a shackle around my soul.

But then, my gaze landed on something—a photo frame, hidden behind a pile of clothes. I picked it up, feeling the weight of the glass in my hands. It was a picture of me as a kid, smiling with my friends at some birthday party I barely remembered. But seeing it, I felt something stir inside me—something that felt almost foreign. A flicker of a memory, a piece of happiness I thought I had lost.

For a moment, it was as if the weight of everything I had been carrying eased just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A reminder of the person I once was, the person who had smiled, who had laughed, who had been full of hope. A reminder that I wasn’t always this broken.

I couldn’t let go of that just yet. Not completely. Not without trying. My parents might never understand. Maybe they would always see me as a burden. But I had to believe there was more to me than their words. More to me than the image I saw in the mirror.

I picked up the pen once more, still trembling but with a little more resolve. The storm inside me wasn’t over. It might never be. But maybe, just maybe, I could survive it. And maybe, with time, I could rebuild myself from the pieces they’d torn apart.

So I wrote. I didn’t know what I was going to say. But it didn’t matter. As long as I kept writing, I was still holding on.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Mori sat on the edge of his bed, his body slumped against the worn mattress. The pale light of dusk filtered through the half-open window, casting long shadows across the room.

The walls were bare, save for a few cracks that spread like webs across the faded wallpaper. His room always felt cold, even when the heater hummed to life in the winter months. He didn’t mind the cold; it was the only thing that could match the emptiness he often felt inside.

His hair, black and messy, hung in front of his face, partially obscuring his eyes. But if anyone bothered to look closely enough, they would see the faint glint of hazel beneath the dark curtain of hair.

His skin, pale as moonlight, looked almost sickly against the dim surroundings, and the dark circles under his eyes, the result of too many sleepless nights, only made him appear even more fragile. Mori had always been different, always been the one to stand out without ever wanting to.

He hated the way people looked at him, the whispers that followed him wherever he went. He hated the way they judged him before he even had the chance to speak.

They looked at his bandaged wrists, the ones that were covered not just by fabric, but by the scars of things he kept hidden deep inside. They saw his dark, tired eyes and assumed he was just a troublemaker, someone with an attitude problem or a chip on his shoulder.

They never cared to understand that behind the cold, distant exterior was someone who had never been given a chance.

Mori’s gaze slowly shifted from the small crack in the wall across from him to the reflection of himself in the glass of the window. He didn’t need to stand in front of a mirror to see himself—he already knew what he looked like.

The face staring back at him was not one he recognized, not one he could ever truly identify with. But then again, who was he, really? Was he the person they saw, the misunderstood loner, the one who everyone assumed was rude and bitter because of his silence?

Or was he something different, something softer, something kind—someone who cared but could never show it?

His eyes dwelled on his reflection. For a long time, they stayed there, searching, hoping that something would change. He wanted so badly for the sadness to go away. For the tiredness to fade. But it never did. The ache, the isolation—it was all still there, buried deep within his chest, suffocating him.

The truth was, Mori had always been alone. From the day he was born, he had never known the warmth of a comforting embrace, never known what it was like to be loved without conditions. His parents didn’t care.

They didn’t understand him. They never had. They’d told him time and time again that he was a disappointment, a burden they never asked for.

His older brother had been the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, the one who made everything look easy. But then, one tragic accident had taken his brother away, leaving Mori to bear the weight of expectations all on his own.

No one had ever been there to lift him up when he fell, and now, he couldn’t even lift himself.

His gaze flickered to the bandages on his legs, wrists, and neck—evidence of the invisible war he fought every day. They were remnants of things he wished he could forget, the silent battles that no one knew about.

The blood, the pain, the constant ache in his chest. They were all locked away in the depths of his mind, hidden beneath the layers of bandages that covered his skin, a fragile armor that only pretended to protect him.

He closed his eyes, letting the silence fill the room. The weight of his thoughts grew heavier with every passing second. Why was he even trying? No one cared about him. No one understood him.

The tears began to form, slowly, painfully, as if they had been waiting for permission to escape. His eyes welled, the tears slipping down his pale cheeks, tracing the curves of his face before dripping onto his lap. He didn't try to stop them. He didn't know how anymore.

The tears weren't just for himself—they were for the parts of him that would always be broken, for the love he had never known, for the words that had been said to him over and over again until they had seeped into his soul. "You're nothing." "You're a failure." "No one will ever love you."

Those words had never stopped echoing in his mind. And no matter how many times he tried to push them away, they always came back.

He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, his chest tightening with each movement, but the tears wouldn’t stop. They just kept coming, an endless river of hurt that had nowhere to go.

He didn’t know how to explain it to anyone—not that anyone would listen, anyway. They only saw what they wanted to see. They only saw the quiet, angry boy with dark bags under his eyes and bandages on his skin. The one they thought was rude, the one they avoided.

But Mori was tired of pretending. He was tired of trying to be what others expected him to be. He just wanted someone to see him for who he really was, someone who was hurting but still had so much love to give if only someone would take the time to understand.

His eyes dwelled on his reflection a little longer, but this time, there was no hope left in them. The darkness in his chest had taken over completely, and he was no longer sure if he could ever get it back.

And so, he sat there in the silence of his room, letting the tears fall, alone, just as he always had been.

The tension in the house was suffocating. Mori stood in the living room, the sharp smell of cleaning products hanging in the air.

His hands were trembling, and the bandages on his wrists felt tighter as if they were trying to hold him together.

The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the refrigerator and the sound of his mother’s footsteps pacing back and forth.

“You never listen, do you, Mori?” His mother’s voice broke the silence, sharp and unforgiving. “Every time I ask you to do something, you just… ignore me. Why can’t you be more like your brother?” Her words were cutting, each one like a dagger in his chest.

Mori’s eyes dropped to the floor, his heart sinking with every syllable. He wasn’t his brother. He never would be. He was just Mori—the son who wasn’t good enough. The son who didn’t measure up.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, but it was too quiet, barely a whisper over the sound of her voice.

His mother was already shaking her head, as if she could never hear him. “Sorry isn’t enough anymore, Mori. Nothing ever is with you. All you do is disappoint.”

It wasn’t the first time she had said something like this, but today, it felt different. The words hit harder, like each one carried the weight of all the past failures he had never been able to escape. The expectation to be like his older brother, to make up for what was lost in that tragic accident, loomed over him every day.

His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the pain of trying to hold it all in threatening to tear him apart. He didn’t want to disappoint her. He didn’t want to be this person—the one who couldn’t do anything right.

“I didn’t mean it,” Mori whispered, his voice breaking. “I didn’t mean it, I swear…”

His mother’s eyes narrowed, disbelief in every line of her face. She took a step closer, voice rising. “You never mean it. You always mess up, always say things you don’t mean, and then what? Apologize? What good does that do?”

Something inside Mori snapped. The pressure, the anger, the frustration—it all came flooding out in a single, uncontrollable rush. His breath quickened, and before he could stop himself, he shoved the nearby chair, sending it crashing to the floor with a loud thud.

He froze.

For a split second, the room was silent again, the weight of what he had just done settling around him.

His heart was pounding, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but the anger inside him was already dissipating, leaving behind only a gnawing emptiness.

"I didn’t mean it," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. His hands shot up to his face, as if trying to hide the tears that were already starting to gather. “I didn’t—”

His mother’s eyes were cold now, distant. “You never mean it, Mori. You never mean anything you do.”

Mori’s chest tightened, as though the words were squeezing the life out of him. He had never meant for things to turn out like this. He hadn’t meant to break the chair, hadn’t meant to make her hate him even more. He hadn’t meant for any of it.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing he ever did seemed to matter.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. He could already feel the weight of her disapproval, the way she saw him—someone who could never be what she wanted. Someone who was too broken to fix.

The silence stretched between them, a vast chasm that neither of them knew how to cross. Mori stood frozen in place, his hands shaking, the tears threatening to spill over.

He wanted to leave, to run far away from this suffocating room, but he knew there was no escape. There never had been.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, but it was useless. The damage had already been done. And no matter how many times he said it, it wouldn’t change the way she saw him.

It wouldn’t change the fact that he would always be the one who broke things—physically, emotionally—no matter how hard he tried.

Mori slowly sank to the floor, his back against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. His body shook, the tears finally escaping and streaking down his face. He couldn’t stop them. He didn’t know how anymore.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered once more, the words hanging in the air like an empty promise.

But no one was listening. No one ever was.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the only sound the soft echo of Mori’s footsteps as he made his way toward the locker room.

His head hung low, his bandages pulling slightly against his skin, the weight of the day pressing down on him. He had kept to himself all day—just like usual.

He had learned to keep his distance, to avoid the conversations and the glances. People didn't like him here.

He didn’t fit in. His pale skin, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair always hung in his face—it was all too much for others to handle. He was an outsider, someone who never quite belonged.

The day had started like any other, with whispers behind his back and occasional stares. He had heard it all by now: “What’s with the bandages?” “Is he some kind of freak?” “Doesn’t he ever smile?”

Mori never responded. He never said a word. He just walked, his gaze fixed on the ground, trying to escape the relentless weight of their judgment. Today, though, something had felt different. The usual jabs and remarks had been replaced with something darker, more deliberate. People seemed to want to provoke him, to see just how far they could push him.

And one person, in particular, had succeeded.

Mori hadn’t meant to react. He never did. But when the harsh words came flying at him in the hall, words that were meant to cut deep, something inside him had snapped. He could feel the anger rising in his chest, the tightness in his throat, the tears that threatened to spill over.

“You’re such a freak, Mori. You think anyone wants to be around you?” The voice came from behind him—loud, mocking, dripping with disdain.

Mori hadn’t even turned around. He couldn’t. If he did, he feared that the hurt would show on his face. That his eyes would betray him, revealing just how much their words stung.

“Go cry, Mori,” the voice had continued, growing louder, and it was like the final spark that set him off. “That’s all you’re good for anyway. Just go cry. It’s what you always do, isn’t it?”

The words sliced through him. He had tried to hold it in. He always did. But this time, the dam broke. He whirled around, his chest tight with a sudden rush of emotion, and his fist swung out in a blind, desperate attempt to stop the pain.

But it wasn’t the punch that did the damage. It was the look in their eyes as they stepped back, shocked, laughing under their breath.

They were amused by him. Amused by his reaction, his vulnerability. They didn’t even care that he was hurting, that he had just been pushed past the point of holding it all together.

“Look at you,” the girl sneered, her lips curling into a smug grin. “Such a loser. Can’t even take a joke.”

Mori stood there, frozen, staring at the ground. His hands were trembling at his sides, the blood rushing to his head, but he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even form a response. It was like the anger had drained out of him, leaving only a hollow emptiness.

“Go cry, Mori,” the voice repeated, quieter now but still heavy with mockery. “Cry all you want. Maybe someone will finally care.”

Mori turned away, unable to bear the sight of them any longer.

His breath was shallow, his chest tight, and before he knew it, his feet carried him down the hallway, his steps quickening as if running away could somehow make everything better. The words, their laughter, the way they treated him—it was too much.

He didn't stop until he reached the bathroom, the door slamming behind him as he locked himself in. He leaned against the cold tiles, his eyes squeezed shut as the tears started to fall.

He didn’t want to cry. He hated crying. But it was like his body couldn’t help itself anymore, like all the hurt had been building up for so long that it had finally poured out. His tears weren’t just for them.

They were for everything. The way his parents never cared, the way his brother’s memory haunted him, the way no one ever saw the real him—the kind, smart Mori who just wanted to be left alone. The Mori who wasn’t a freak.

The sobs came in jagged, painful bursts. His face pressed into his sleeve, his breath coming in shaky gasps as his body trembled with the weight of everything.

The bandages on his wrist felt tight as he curled his hands into fists, trying to hold onto something, anything, that would keep him together.

But nothing could. He was unraveling, piece by piece.

“Go cry, Mori.”

The words echoed in his mind, each one like a cruel reminder that no one cared. They didn’t care about the pain he was in, about the things he had to hide. They only saw him as the broken kid, the one who didn’t fit in, the one who was always the outsider.

Mori didn’t know how long he stood there, crying in the cold bathroom, his tears falling silently, his body trembling from the weight of it all.

And in that moment, all he wanted was for someone—anyone—to reach out and pull him from the darkness. To see past the broken parts, past the bandages, past the anger and the sadness.

But there was no one.

So he cried, just as they had told him to.

The bell rang, signaling the end of another school day, but Mori didn’t move. His classmates flooded out of the classroom, the chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls, but Mori stayed seated, staring down at the empty desk in front of him.

He didn’t want to face the hallways, didn’t want to face the crowded space filled with people who hated him—or worse, didn’t even care enough to hate him. He was nothing to them, and that was worse than any insult.

With slow, careful movements, Mori gathered his books and shoved them into his bag, the soft scrape of paper against fabric the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

His bandages, always visible under his sleeves and pants, seemed to draw more eyes than he wanted. Every movement felt scrutinized, dissected by people who were too eager to judge, to assume who he was based on nothing but his appearance.

Just as he stood to leave, a voice stopped him.

“Hey, Mori.”

He turned slowly, already bracing himself. It wasn’t a friendly tone. He could tell. It wasn’t like someone was genuinely concerned. It was the kind of voice that was dripping with indifference and barely concealed disdain.

A group of students stood near the door, leaning against the walls and smirking at him. One of them, a guy Mori barely knew, pushed off the wall and took a step closer.

He was tall, with broad shoulders, and he had that look—the look of someone who felt they could get away with anything just by existing. He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on Mori with a cruel gleam in his eyes.

“You know,” the guy began, his voice a low mockery, “no one likes you here. You’re just… you’re a freak.”

Mori’s heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to meet the guy’s gaze. He wasn’t going to let this get to him. He’d been called worse. He’d been through worse.

Still, it hurt—because it wasn’t the first time he had heard it, and it wasn’t the first time the words had cut deep.

“Yeah, I can see why,” another voice chimed in, one of the girls from the group. She had a sharp, sneering smile, as if the idea of Mori even being in the same space as them was some kind of joke. “You’re all quiet and weird, and you always look like you’re about to cry. It’s like you just don’t belong here.”

Mori bit down on his lower lip, the familiar sting of humiliation rushing through him. They didn’t know him. None of them did.

They didn’t know about the nights he spent awake, the way his parents never once asked how he was feeling, the endless weight of the memory of his older brother—gone, never to return.

They didn’t know how hard it was to even get out of bed some mornings.

But none of that mattered. They didn’t care about any of it. They were already judging him, putting him in a box that he would never escape.

He was just the kid with the bandages, the weird kid who people could make fun of, who people could push around, because he wouldn’t fight back.

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Mori said quietly, his voice barely audible. He had no strength to yell back, no energy to fight. “I don’t bother anyone.”

The guy smirked again. “You don’t need to bother anyone, Mori. You’re just—there. And that’s the problem. You think you’re special because of your little bandages? You think you’re different?

Newsflash, buddy: we all have problems. But we don’t walk around like we’re some kind of tragic story. No one cares, Mori. Get over it.”

Mori’s throat tightened, the tears threatening to rise, but he pushed them down. He couldn’t break. Not now, not in front of them. If he did, they would win. They would get exactly what they wanted—his weakness.

“I’m just trying to get through the day,” Mori whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Just trying to survive.”

But the group wasn’t done. They continued to laugh at him, snicker behind their hands, and Mori stood there, frozen, his stomach twisting into knots.

It felt like the walls were closing in, and for a moment, he thought he might suffocate right there in the hallway. He wanted to leave. He wanted to disappear.

But before he could even turn to go, the guy spoke again, his voice louder this time.

“You know what?” he said, his words dripping with venom. “You can go ahead and walk around like you’re some tragic little victim, but we don’t care. No one here cares about you, Mori. You’re just a joke.”

The laughter that followed stung more than anything. It wasn’t the first time he had been treated like this, but it was different somehow. Today, it felt like they were all in on it—everyone in the room, everyone in the school.

It felt like they were all judging him, seeing him as nothing more than a punching bag, someone to laugh at, to ridicule.

He swallowed hard, trying to fight back the tears, but they came anyway. His chest felt tight as he turned away from the group, his bag hanging heavy on his shoulder. He didn’t want to show them weakness.

He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. But it didn’t matter. The tears came, and they spilled down his face before he could stop them.

He walked quickly, the sound of their laughter echoing in his ears as he made his way toward the exit. But even as he stepped out into the cold air, the words lingered in his mind.

No one liked him here. And he knew, deep down, that they never would.

​​​​​​​The room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering lamp beside the bed. Mori sat on the edge of the mattress, his hands trembling as they gripped the edge of a half-empty bottle.

The bandages wrapped around his arms, neck, and legs were starting to feel too tight, like they were choking the life out of him.

His pale skin seemed to glow in the darkness, the dark circles under his eyes stark against the emptiness that filled the room. His eyes were vacant, distant, as if he were staring at something far away, something he could never reach.

The whispers from the day had followed him home. They always did. They echoed in his mind like an endless loop—freak, loser, no one cares about you. He had tried to ignore them.

He had tried to push them out, but no matter how hard he tried, they always came back, louder and sharper than before.

“You’ll never be good enough, Mori.”

“No one cares. Not really.”

“You’re just a burden, always have been, always will be.”

The bottle in his hand felt strangely heavy. His fingers, cold and stiff, wrapped around it like it was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground. He wanted it to end. He wanted it all to stop.

The weight of everything was unbearable. His parents, who never cared, always disappointed him. His brother, lost forever in a tragic accident that still haunted him every waking moment. The endless cycle of rejection and isolation.

He had tried so hard, tried to fit in, tried to be someone who mattered, but no one ever saw him for who he truly was. They only saw the scars, the broken pieces, the things he couldn't fix.

They saw him as the loser—the kid who was always too quiet, too weird, too distant. He was too much to ignore, but not enough to love.

He opened the bottle, the liquid inside almost sloshing over the edge, and he stared at it for a long moment. His hands were shaking violently now, and his heart was pounding in his chest, but the overwhelming numbness inside him kept him still.

There was no way out. No one cared. No one was coming to save him.

And maybe… maybe it was better this way.

His fingers hovered over the pills, and for a moment, he thought he could hear his brother’s voice, distant but somehow comforting in his head. "You’re not alone." But it was just a memory. His brother was gone.

He was the only one left, and that meant there was nothing left to fight for. There was no point.

The pills slipped from the bottle one by one, like little promises of release, and Mori’s hands didn’t hesitate.

He swallowed them one after another, the bitter taste settling on his tongue as he waited for the numbness to wash over him, to take him away from all the pain and the hate and the loneliness.

He closed his eyes, letting the darkness surround him. It felt like peace, in a way—like an escape from everything he had been through. The cruel words, the isolation, the endless pressure to be something he wasn’t.

All of it would disappear. It would finally be over.

But as the world around him began to blur, the edges of his vision growing darker, a faint voice seemed to pierce through the fog, distant but clear. It was his own voice.

“I didn’t mean it.”

But it was too late for that. His body had already begun to betray him, and the darkness was swallowing him whole.

.

..

...

Hours later, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door to his room creaked open slowly, and his mother stepped in, her eyes immediately falling on him.

The sight of Mori lying motionless on the floor, surrounded by the empty bottle and scattered pills, made her stop cold. Her breath caught in her throat as she rushed toward him, panic flooding her face.

“Mori?” she whispered, kneeling beside him.

Her voice barely reached him, but it didn’t matter. Mori couldn’t hear her. He couldn’t hear anyone.

He had been right all along. No one cared. No one ever would.

He had never been enough.

And now, he was nothing at all.