SUFFER IN SILENCE.

It was something Violet Choudhary had told herself from day one. Suffer in silence, for no one cares except you. Suffer in silence, for the sobs which wrack your body are yours and no one else's. And now, as Violet sat on her chair, her shoulders crouched over her desk, her hand still as the last line of her poem lay unwritten, she thought that she had always suffered in silence.

For there was no one to care.

It was only her and it had always been only her.

Violet laid her head down on the desk, not moving, not even as the water bottle fell to the floor and her hand relaxed and the pen rolled off the desk. She glanced at the frayed piece of paper she'd been writing on.

She shook her head and rubbed at her eyes. Her breath slowed down and she exhaled − she'd heard somewhere that exhalation was like Death, for it was utter and complete relaxation. Sometimes, she wished that she could simply exhale and not inhale again.

Oh and she'd tried.

She'd tried every single way she could think of. She'd swallowed too many medicines and she'd collapse to the floor of her bathroom but just before her eyes fluttered close, she knew she hadn't taken enough and she knew that she'd done it on purpose.

She'd tried to choke herself but just before the rope was tied too tightly around her throat, she'd open the knot. She'd made cuts and she'd revel in the pain for as long as she could. But at the end of all of it, she'd never done it.

She was close, she was close, she was so close.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it and just end it all once and for all.

Violet looked down at her arm and rolled her sleeves up. Written on her skin, with a simple black pen, were quotes. Some Violet had made, some she'd heard. They spiraled down her arm, written carefully, so that she could hide them. Every day, Violet rewrote them. Every day, as if it was some sort of reminder, she would write them all over again.

At the point of death, the pain is over.

The difference between life and death is just one breath, isn't it?

Inhale and then exhale.

Death is an adventure. So is life.

Death is a part of life.

Death and Life are two sides of the same coin.

Her mind seemed to just be a constant battle between life and death.

Between inhalation and exhalation.

The question was if she was ready to exhale and not inhale again. That was the question which had been troubling her for as long as she could remember. She would come so painfully close to death and then life would catch a hold of her and pull her back into its chaos.

Her emotions swam around in her head, her thoughts wrecking havoc everywhere. She sighed again, giving her body a moment to relax. But, Violet knew of course, that she had to inhale again. She knew that perhaps, there was a reason life wouldn't let her go.

The problem was that Violet didn't know what the reason was.

And since she didn't know, she kept trying.

Violet glanced down at her wrists.

She would keep trying. She would keep trying because even though there was a very small part of her which thought that there was something stopping her, something which told her that she wouldn't die today, she still wanted to.

Violet picked up the pen again.

At least if she couldn't exhale completely today, she could inhale for another day and keep going. She started to write.

Fifteen blocks away, another girl inhaled.

For Sofia Walters, inhaling and exhaling had always been a very important part of her life. Her hands laid on her knees as she sat ― her legs criss-crossed. Her palms faced the sky as her thumb and index finger met to form a circle.

She inhaled again and held her breath before exhaling. Her body completely relaxed and before she knew it, she was standing up and rolling up her yoga mat. Sofia rested her yoga mat against her wardrobe. She entwined her fingers together and stretched, a peaceful smile on her face. Sofia moved to open her wardrobe. She looked at the mirror which she'd hung up on the door of her closet. In the reflection was her, only her. Her wavy blonde hair, tanned skin and pearly-white smile. But behind her were trophies. Golden trophies which seemed to shimmer in the sun.

It was a curse that they were so beautiful, for every time Sofia looked at them, she was reminded that she'd only won them because she had to. She'd only won them because she had no choice. Sofia took a deep breath ― inhale, exhale ― and looked back at her reflection. Her smile had dropped a little and she wondered what would happen if she let the mask drop.

Sofia shook her head slightly; dropping the mask would be drastic. Dropping the mask, even pulling it off just a little would be a risk she wasn't willing to take. But then again, here in her bedroom, it was just her, wasn't it?

Sofia let her hair down. She wanted to mess it up, she wanted to go crazy. She wanted to look at herself in the mirror, with all her imperfections she always hid and think, "I'm beautiful."

Her mother entered the room.

"Sofia! How many times do I have to tell you to keep your hair up? her mother chided her. "It doesn't look nice when it's down."

Sofia looked at the rubber-hand which was covering her wrists, almost like a bracelet.

The mask was back on.