I want people to know, but I don't want to tell them.

I can't seem to pay attention in class. It's a strange feeling. I can't muster up the energy to care about what's going on. The beauties and intricacies of chemical bonds hold no luster today. I write, fragments of notes and emails to people that I know will never be sent. How could I explain to my professor that I did horribly on the test because I've been overcome by a profound sadness for the past few weeks that makes it hard to sleep and impossible to focus? It sounds like a flimsy excuse to me. I shut my computer.

After class, I wonder what the use is going to my last lecture, the class that was my favorite until I stopped caring about everything. I decide to go home instead. The powerpoint is online, I'll be fine. The sun is shining, and the wind tastes of spring--but even that doesn't help. Someone calls my name, an acquaintance from high school. "How are you?" she queries. I swallow the words that threaten to spill out, the brackish truths that more adequately convey how I feel. I answer with a passive "OK" and a half-smile. I continue to the bus stop.

The bus finally comes and I board, shaky hands fumbling with my pass. Someone's had a cigarette recently. The clinging smoke fills the small space, making me sick to my stomach. I withdraw further into my own space, pressing against the window and mentally willing other passengers to stay away from me. It works. 

I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, the solace of solitude that seems so precious. I fervently hope my roommates aren't home. Trembling fingers struggle to fit the key in the lock, but at last I'm alone. Tears start to roll unbidden. I climb up to my bed, intending to just stare at the ceiling and weep silently.

But something snaps, and I'm wracked with violent spurts of sobs. After a few seconds, I become detached, as though it's someone else crying. I hear desperate gasps for breath and feel my diaphragm constricting rapidly, but I have no control. I'm concerned that this crazy person who's crying is going to hyperventilate. My body continues, soaking my pillows with tears and sounding like the most woebegone, heartbroken wretch in the world. I feel a twinge of sympathy. 

The wrenching cries become silent, until I'm only aware of them because the spasms make the bedframe shake. The whimpering gets softer and slower, until it finally stops. The storm is over. I'm suddenly in control again. I release the pillow I've been strangling and slowly relax until the raw tension in my body subsides. I climb down and blow my nose. 

I feel empty. I'm not sure I'm alive, or if I want to be. I don't know if it's better to feel deeply miserable or to feel nothing at all.

I breathe.