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𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖨𝖲𝖬 𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤 Pt. 12 (𝖡𝗒 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗋𝗈𝖥𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌) Plankton is still in the corner, his body huddled small, his arms wrapped around his knees. He's still facing the wall, yet his antennae twitched at the sound of their approach. Karen's eyes fill with concern as she sees her husband's form, so vulnerable. "Plankton," she says softly, her voice barely a whisper. "Can Chip come in to talk?" Plankton's antennae twitch again, and then, very slowly, one hand moves from his knee to form a sharp, clear 'no' in the air. It's a gesture that Chip doesn't know, but Karen does. It's a sign Plankton learned from Sign Language, a way to express his needs without voicing words. Chip looks at his mom, confusion etched on his face. "What's that mean?" he whispers. Karen's heart clenches at her son's innocence. "It means your dad needs more time," she explains gently. "He's signing 'no' in Sign Language. It's a short way of saying he's not ready for company." Chip nods slowly, his eyes never leaving Plankton's silent form. He's never seen signs before. This is new to him. But, his dad's not deaf or hard of hearing, right? Karen sees his confusion, so she decides it's time to explain. "For him, it's not about hearing," she says. "He's learned a few signs to communicate when his words fail him." Chip's eyes widen in realization. "But why does he do that?" he whispers. "Because sometimes, sweetie, his brain gets really, really tired," Karen says, her voice soothing. "And when it's overstimulated, trying to talk can be really hard. So he can use his hands instead. But he only knows a few signs, not full sentences." Chip nods slowly, his eyes still on Plankton. "But... but what signs does he know? Can you teach me what signs he might use?" Karen nods, her voice gentle. "Of course, honey. He knows the alphabet but I'll teach you how to say yes and no.." They go and sit on the floor outside the bedroom door, Karen teaching Chip the few signs that Plankton had learned. "This one's for 'yes,'" she says, moving her hand up and down. "And this one's for 'no,'" she continues, two of her fingers tapping the thumb. Chip mimics her movements, his eyes focused, determined. He practices these signs, his hands a bit shaky at first. But as they go through them, his movements become more confident. Karen's heart swells with pride. Despite the situation, she's grateful for this moment—a chance for her son to learn and grow, to understand his father a little more. After a few minutes of practice, Karen suggests they try again. Chip nods, his eyes determined. Together, they enter the room. Plankton hasn't moved. "Dad?" Chip says softly. Plankton's antennae flick towards them, but he doesn't react. "I know you're upset," Chip continues, his voice trembling. "But I just want to tell you... I love you." Plankton's body stiffens. He's listening, Karen knows, but his response is slow to come. "And I know you love me too," Chip adds, his voice getting stronger. "But sometimes, it's hard to tell. Can you... can you just tell me if you're okay?" He pauses, his hand hovering. Plankton's antennae twitch again. This time, he forms a different sign—one that Chip doesn't recognize. It's a quick movement of his hand out to the side, then back to his chest, his fingers splayed. Karen's eyes widen in understanding. "He's asking for space," she whispers to Chip. "That's his way of saying 'I need to be alone right now.' It's okay," she says, her voice soft. "He just needs some time alone." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's form. He raises his hand, his fingers mimicking the sign his dad had just made. "Space," he asks, his voice uncertain. Karen nods, her eyes filled with relief. "Good job," she whispers. Plankton's antennae twitch again, and this time, he slowly turns his head to look at them. His eye met Chip's, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something—understanding, maybe? Chip's heart jumps. "I know you're okay," Chip says, his voice hopeful. Plankton's hand moves again, forming the 'Space' sign. It's clear, deliberate. Chip's heart sinks. Karen sees the confusion on Chip's face and steps in. "Chip," she says gently, "he's asking for space. That's his way of saying 'I need to be alone right now.'" She pauses, swallowing hard. "It's okay. We'll give him that." Chip nods, his hand dropping to his side. He feels a mix of disappointment and relief. "Okay," he whispers, his voice small. "Good night." Karen gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before Chip left their room. Karen turns back to Plankton. "I'm sorry for earlier." Karen says. "I know that must've been traumatizing for you. I wasn't thinking clearly and I hurt you. I just felt the need to protect. But I didn't do so in a way that made you feel safe. I should've known better. I'm sorry." Plankton's body relaxes slightly, his antennae still twitching. He moves his hand again, a new sign. It's not one Karen taught Chip, but she knows it instantly—it's 'I understand.' Her heart clenches at the sight of his attempt to comfort her, when he's the one in pain. She nods. "Thank you," she whispers. "Want me to tuck you in?" With a quick, precise movement, Plankton signs 'Without Touching'. Karen nods, understanding his need for his personal space, even in this intimate moment. She watches as he shifts, his eye never leaving hers. She respects his boundaries, even though it's hard not to want to comfort him with a physical touch. Then, with the same deliberate care, he forms the letters 'T', 'R', 'Y', 'I', 'N', 'G'. It's not a full sign, but it's enough. 'Trying to forgive', he's signing. Karen's eyes fill with tears. Her heart swells with love for him, for his willingness to communicate despite the barriers that autism can put between them. She mirrors the sign back to him, showing she understands. The room remains quiet, their silent conversation speaking volumes. Plankton's body finally relaxes a little more, his shoulders dropping. He signs 'Good night' with his hand, his movements precise and clear. Karen mirrors his gesture, her own hand shaking slightly. "Good night," she says, her voice barely audible.
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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⠇⠀⠀⠳⣄⠀⡤⢠⣶⠂⢹⡆⠀⢸⣸⣿⣉⣭⣿⢛⡵⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⠟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠛⠋⠁⠀⠈⠙⠛⠛⠂⠀⢀⡾⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⡏⠀⠀⠹⢶⣼⡿⣷⢸⠈⣆⢸⡇⢀⣫⣼⠋⠉⢩⠏⡿⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⣟⣿⠀⠀⢰⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣼⢷⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡾⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⣾⣽⡏⠘⢀⣻⣼⠿⠟⠋⣤⣠⡼⠋⣸⠃⠀⠀⠀⢠⡟⡿⠸⣏⠀⠀⠀⠙⣿⣦⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠤⠤⣀⣀⣠⡴⠟⣹⠈⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡼⠻⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠹⡿⠿⠟⠋⠀⠀⠀⡶⢹⠇⠀⣰⠏⠀⠀⢀⣠⠟⠀⣟⠀⠹⣦⡀⠀⠀⠘⢮⡙⠻⠿⠿⠿⠿⠟⠛⠛⠛⠉⠀⣴⠏⠀⢿⡟⢦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠟⠁⠀⠙⣧⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢏⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠇⠟⢀⡞⣁⣤⠶⠞⣿⠏⠀⢀⡏⠀⠀⠈⠻⣦⣀⠀⠀⠻⣄⠀⠀⠉⢷⡀⠀⠀⢀⣤⡾⠃⠀⠀⠸⣿⣆⠙⣶⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣴⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⡀⠀⠀⢰⠟⣀⡴⠟⠉⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡞⡇⠀⠀⣀⣀⣀⡉⠙⠓⠦⣬⣇⡀⠁⠀⠳⢶⣴⠟⠉⠀⢀⣠⣴⡄⣿⡹⣦⠀⠙⣷⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⣶⣤⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⡿⣻⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⢦⣄⢀⣾⣿⣴⣴⣶⣾⣿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⠁⡇⠀⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣦⣄⣀⠈⠛⠷⡶⠾⠋⣀⣤⣴⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣆⠸⣧⠀⠈⠙⠻⣿⣗⠦⠿⣾⣿⣿⣿⠶⠦⣤⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⠏⠀⢹⡄⠀⣰⠆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢩⣛⠿⣧⣅⣴⡿⣿⣽⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⣄⣸⠃⠀⢿⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣿⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⢿⡀⠸⣧⡀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢷⣄⡀⠙⠻⢯⣗⣦⣄⡙⠳⣦⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡃⠀⠀⠈⢻⣾⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡏⠛⣶⡎⢈⣷⣿⣍⣒⣒⡶⠶⢒⣚⣯⣥⣴⣏⠀⠀⣾⡆⢹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡗⢸⣷⠀⡜⣷⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣦⡀⠀⠉⠙⠻⠿⣷⣤⠝⣳⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠟⠙⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠷⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣠⡶⢋⣴⡾⠋⣰⠟⠻⠶⠉⠉⠻⣟⣛⣛⠋⠉⠱⢦⣽⣧⣠⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠀⠀⠀⠹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⠐⢿⡇⢲⡞⢳⣤⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠘⠻⣿⣮⣿⣷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡾⠃⣠⢾⣻⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⡶⣄⣰⣏⢡⡴⠞⣉⣠⣾⠟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⣉⣿⠏⣻⡇⠹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠉⠳⣄⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠀⠀⢸⣿⡸⠁⣬⣷⣶⣍⠳⢦⣄⡀⠀⠈⢿⣦⡄⠀⢠⡀⠈⠻⣿⠿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡼⠋⠀⣼⠃⠋⠈⠙⢷⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣻⣬⡉⠛⠛⣿⡟⣩⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⡴⠶⣛⣭⢴⡞⠀⣿⠀⠙⢿⣿⣿⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠙⣦⠀⢀⠀⠀⠀⢻⠿⢿⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠘⣿⢁⣾⣿⣽⡟⢿⡿⢶⣬⣭⣿⣶⣾⣧⡿⠀⢸⣇⠀⠀⠹⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⠏⠀⠀⣰⠇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⣦⡀⠀⠀⣠⣿⡼⠃⢀⣾⢋⣶⠋⠀⠀⢀⣀⣀⣀⣤⣤⠶⠖⣛⣩⡥⠖⠛⠉⠀⣼⠇⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠙⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣹⠀⠈⢀⠀⠀⢺⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢻⣿⣷⠛⠁⠀⢀⣿⣄⡘⠙⠻⡏⢹⡏⢳⡀⠀⣿⠀⠀⣆⢿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡾⠁⠀⣠⠞⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣹⣷⣿⣭⣋⡀⣴⠿⣭⡾⠁⠀⣠⠞⣯⣩⣭⠥⠶⠒⠚⠉⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⡿⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠰⣿⡷⠀⠸⡄⠘⢦⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡷⣌⠳⣄⡀⢸⣿⣿⡇⠀⠀⢹⠈⣷⠈⢷⠀⣿⠀⠀⣿⢺⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡾⠛⠃⢀⡾⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣼⡿⠁⢀⣬⢿⣿⣿⣶⠋⠀⠀⠀⣿⠸⡇⠀⢀⣠⣤⣴⠷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⠃⠀⠀⠸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢻⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⣧⠈⠳⢬⡙⢦⣿⠿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡇⠸⡇⣿⠀⡀⣿⢹⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⠋⠀⠀⢠⡾⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡿⠋⣠⣾⡿⠃⠀⠀⣸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⢻⡆⣧⠀⠈⠉⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡟⠀⠀⠀⠘⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠙⢦⡙⢷⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣧⠀⣧⢺⢀⡇⣿⢸⣿⡀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⠇⠀⢀⡴⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣡⡴⣻⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⣼⢏⡷⣀⣀⠀⠀⠈⣇⢸⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⢈⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢶⡝⢷⣄⠀⠀⠀⣿⠐⠰⣸⡞⢰⡏⢾⡏⣷⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣼⡟⠀⣠⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡴⠟⣩⡾⠋⠀⠀⠀⢠⡾⠃⣸⣷⣤⣭⣽⣶⠀⣿⠈⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⢨⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢧⣝⢧⡀⠀⣿⡀⠄⣹⠁⣾⠃⣿⠀⢸⡄⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡞⣿⠁⢠⡏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣤⠞⠉⣤⡞⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⣰⣿⣷⣤⡽⣿⡃⣴⣏⠙⠻⣾⡇⢸⡆⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⡏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⣷⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⣮⡻⣆⣿⡅⡇⢸⣭⡿⢰⡇⠀⣠⣷⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠟⠁⠋⢀⡼⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠞⢉⣀⣶⠟⠁⠀⣠⡶⠀⣰⡟⠙⢿⣿⣁⣿⣧⠙⠻⢦⣀⠹⣷⠈⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⢯⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠐⡇⢢⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⢧⡛⣿⠇⡇⢸⣹⠇⣼⠁⣰⡏⢹⡄⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⣴⠋⠀⠀⣠⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⡾⠁⣀⣶⠟⠁⢀⣠⣾⡟⠀⣰⣏⡤⠶⡟⠹⣯⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠈⢷⢻⡇⢸⡆⠀⢠⡇⠀⠀⠀⢰⡏⣾⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠈⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣧⡿⢶⡇⣼⠃⣰⣇⣼⣷⠏⢸⡇⠀ ⠀⢀⡾⠃⠀⣠⡾⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⠋⡀⠤⡾⢁⣠⠶⣫⠟⠁⠀⣴⣯⣁⡀⢰⡏⠠⢱⣿⡿⠀⠀⠀⢀⣾⣹⣿⠈⣧⡴⢛⡇⠀⠀⢀⡿⢀⡿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠈⠣⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣏⣧⠸⢿⡿⢠⡿⣬⡿⢃⣶⣸⠃⠀ ⠀⡼⠁⢠⡾⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡾⢁⠆⡁⢂⠋⣉⡴⠞⠁⠀⠀⣰⡿⢁⠉⠉⢉⠠⠐⣸⣿⡇⠀⠀⠰⠟⠉⣸⢻⣇⠸⡇⢸⡇⠀⠀⣼⠃⢨⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡇⠀⢠⣶⡦⠀⠀⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⣽⠀⠸⣇⡾⣱⡟⣡⣾⣿⡟⠀⠀ ⣸⢃⣴⠏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⠇⠌⡐⠰⢠⡾⠋⠀⠀⣠⠎⣰⡟⢡⠂⢰⣶⣤⣤⣦⣽⡟⡃⠀⠀⢀⣤⠞⠁⡘⣿⠀⣿⡈⡇⠀⢀⡟⠀⢼⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⠀⠀⠛⠁⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣿⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⡟⣻⣿⡏⠀⠀⣿⣣⡟⣡⡿⣿⣻⣧⡀⠀ ⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢰⡏⠌⢦⠑⣰⠟⢀⣠⣴⡾⣋⡾⠋⢀⠂⠌⠄⣨⣽⠟⠋⢹⡇⠙⠶⠶⠋⠄⡠⠁⠄⢻⡇⠸⣧⢿⠀⢸⡇⠀⣻⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣾⠁⢠⣿⡿⠀⠀⠀⢸⡟⢠⡿⣱⣿⡟⢘⣇⠀ ⢻⣤⣄⣠⣀⣄⣀⣀⢀⣀⣠⣼⣧⣦⣴⣼⣾⠿⣿⣯⣵⢶⣯⣤⣵⣤⣬⣴⡾⠟⠁⠀⠀⢸⣧⣤⣦⣤⣬⣴⣤⣥⣬⣼⣷⢸⣿⣾⣦⣼⣦⣴⣴⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣀⣸⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣆⣀⣀⣠⣰⣧⣤⣿⣿⡇⣀⣀⣄⣸⣷⡿⠵⣿⡿⢡⣿⣿⡄
pls note the ai inflicts emotional damage (ᵕ—ᴗ—)
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اويلي عليك جيسوسس𐙚𐙚
I’ve been thinking. Ive grown up thinking. But, im not thinking normally anymore. Suicidally, now. Sometimes I’ve thought about the reactions of family members seeing my body hung up, my body on the floor that has fallen feet above ground. Would they miss me? Be ashamed? Hate me, even after death? I’ve thought that death was an answer, an escape to problems that felt like they couldn’t be solved. I’ve hated myself. Hated myself the first day I’ve heard those nasty words spill out their mouths. I can’t control my feelings anymore. I think I’ve bottled them up for too long. I can’t handle anything rude about me anymore. Can’t take jokes anymore without trying not to cry. All those visits to Miss Caba’s office in Katz didn’t help either. Despite how much I loved her, even she couldn’t help. Cutting myself doesn’t help, even despite the slight relief it gives me. I don’t think it will ever be enough. I’ve drawn my feelings before. How is that supposed to help? It never does. I can’t talk to anyone about it, about this. this, this feeling. No one gets it, and they NEVER will. I’ll be labeled weird, insane, unstable, crazy. And those words coming from the ones I’ve loved since birth, hurts. Hearing people you love say words like that, even if it IS the truth. Those cruel words escaping their lips without a care in the world. And the audacity to ask why I’m crying after they’ve said them. After they’ve verbally stabbed me in the heart millions of times on repeat, over and over, stab after stab, blood spilled over and over again. They ask why I’m crying? To suck it up? To STOP, crying? The truth is, I can’t. I can’t stop crying. The tears pour, and pour, drip after drip. Like a broken faucet that won’t stop leaking. A punctured heart that drips each day of blood. The tears roll down my cheeks uncontrollably, unable to be stopped. Like a bottle bursting after so much pressure. And I can’t express this with words, only through letters arranged together in a digital diary. A temporary escape to the world around me. It’s childish I know, being such a baby. But I can’t help it. Sometimes, I want to die. — SL.
ᕈS5

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