The Quiet Cry of Chigozie

 There were two kinds of silences in Chigozie’s world.

The first was the comforting kind — the soft hush of rain tapping against his window, wrapping him in a blanket of peace.
The second was the crushing kind — the silence that filled every corner of his mind with invisible screams, trapping him in a soundproof room while the world outside went on, unaware.

Most of his life, Chigozie had only known the first kind.
He was the boy who laughed at little things, played barefoot in the streets, and helped old women carry baskets from the market. His heart had once been light, weightless.

But life changes you, quietly and cruelly.

The shift began after his mother’s death.
Cancer took her like a thief in the night, leaving only dust where color once lived. His home — once filled with her laughter — now echoed with hollow silence.

At her funeral, everyone told him to be strong.
"You’re the man of the house now," they said.
And so he carried the weight of grief the only way he knew: by pretending he wasn’t broken.

School blurred.
Friends faded.
Smiles became masks he wore so well that even he sometimes forgot he was dying inside.

At night, he stared at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick, wishing time would stop — or fast-forward to a day where he didn’t hurt anymore.

His old joys — football, painting, laughter — grew distant, like memories from a dream he could barely remember.

No one noticed.
Or maybe they noticed and didn’t know what to say.

One evening, in the pale glow of his desk lamp, Chigozie picked up a pen and wrote:

"Dear Whoever Cares,
I’m tired.
I’m tired of pretending.
I’m tired of waking up feeling like I'm drowning.
I’m tired of smiling so no one asks questions.
I’m just tired.

I’m sorry if I wasn’t strong enough.
I’m sorry if I failed you.
I’m sorry if I failed myself.

I just want the pain to stop.
That’s all.

Love,
Chigozie."

He tucked it inside his journal, too afraid to send it.
Too afraid of what it would mean.

The strange thing was, the week before the end, he looked... peaceful.
He smiled more. Ate more. Even laughed once or twice.

His father saw it and hoped it meant healing.
But sometimes peace isn’t a beginning.
Sometimes it’s a goodbye.

Thursday evening.
The sky bled orange and pink across the horizon — a painting he would have loved to capture once.

Chigozie walked to the old bridge, the one he used to ride his bicycle across as a boy.
He stood there for a long time, breathing in the fading day.

He scrolled through photos on his phone: birthdays, beach trips, goofy selfies.
A life that had been full. A life he could no longer feel.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

Then, quietly, without drama or fear, he stepped forward.

They found him the next morning.
The news rippled through the town, through the school, through the broken hearts of those who wished they had asked one more time, "Are you really okay?"

At the funeral, the air was thick with regret.
White lilies — his mother’s favorite — covered his grave.

His father found the letter.
He read it again and again, each word a blade against his heart.

The world kept turning.
But it would never be the same.

A Chigozie-shaped hole remained — silent, aching, unfillable.

Dear Reader,

If you are reading this, it means I am gone.

I fought as long as I could. Please believe that.
It wasn’t weakness that brought me here — it was exhaustion.
Carrying invisible pain every day eventually broke me.

But if you remember anything about me, let it be this:

You matter.
Your life is precious — even when your mind tells you otherwise.
You are loved — even when you cannot feel it.
You are needed — even when the weight feels unbearable.

Please, stay.
Fight one more day.
Somewhere down the road, there’s a sunrise waiting just for you.

I'm sorry I won't be there to see it.
But I hope you will.

Love always,
Chigozie