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Outlasting the Storm 🌩
Lottie5433
Posts: 55 Boards Initiate
The rain beat against the window as if it were trying to break through. Riley sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, staring at the water streaming down the glass. The world outside seemed so relentless, so alive. Meanwhile, she felt empty—like a hollowed-out shell that couldn’t keep pace anymore.
At 27, Riley was tired. Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep or coffee, but the deep weariness that settles in the bones when every day feels like a battle. She had struggled with her mental health for years: the unshakable weight of depression, the anxiety that turned her thoughts into blizzards of what-ifs, and the sharp loneliness that followed. Life had become a series of half-finished attempts and friends who, despite their love, didn’t quite understand.
She used to have more of them—friends who laughed with her in college, stayed up late watching movies, and swore they’d all grow old together. But over time, their lives moved forward while Riley’s felt like it was folding in on itself. They got jobs and promotions. They fell in love, got married, and had babies. Whenever she saw their pictures online—smiling faces, milestones reached—she felt both happy for them and utterly left behind.
“I’m so sorry I’ve been distant,” she had texted Jenna a month ago, her last remaining close friend. Jenna responded warmly, as always, but it was hard to ignore the gap growing between them. Riley canceled plans more often than not, her excuses varying but her reasons the same: the energy to leave the house just wasn’t there. After enough cancellations, the invitations dwindled.
Today marked her fifth day without speaking to anyone. The silence felt like it might consume her. She’d scrolled through her phone earlier, hovering over contacts she hadn’t messaged in months. “I should call someone,” she whispered to herself. But what would she even say? The truth? That every time she tried to explain her struggle, the words came out wrong? That despite people telling her to “reach out,” she couldn’t shake the guilt that she was a burden?
Instead, she stayed quiet. Quiet had become safe. Quiet didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer.
Outside, the sky darkened, and the rain picked up. Riley could hear the faint sound of cars splashing through puddles on the street below. In some distant part of her mind, she imagined people heading home to warm houses, to dinners with family or movie nights with friends. That life felt a universe away, untouchable.
As the evening wore on, she grabbed her journal—a battered notebook that had become her only confidante. The pages were already filled with tear-streaked entries and half-formed thoughts. She opened to a fresh page and, with trembling hands, began to write:
*“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this—watching everyone else move forward while I’m stuck here. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a storm, screaming for someone to hear me, but no one turns around. Maybe they’ve given up on me. Maybe I’m not worth saving.”*
She stopped, pen hovering above the paper as tears spilled onto her cheeks. She hated feeling this way—resentful, hopeless, invisible—but she didn’t know how to stop it. The isolation only made it worse. She’d convinced herself that everyone else had outlasted her—that she was the friend they once loved but now quietly mourned.
But then, a notification lit up her phone. A text. Jenna.
*“Hey. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here. No judgment, no pressure. I miss you, Riley. And I’m not going anywhere.”*
Riley stared at the message, her vision blurring with tears. She re-read it a dozen times, trying to absorb it. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough. Enough to remind her that not everyone had left. That maybe, even if she couldn’t see it, someone was still standing in the storm with her.
She picked up her phone and, after a long pause, typed back:
*“I miss you too. I’m not okay, but I’m glad you’re here.”*
It felt small, fragile even, but it was a start. And sometimes, when you feel abandoned and outlasted, the smallest step can feel like a victory. Riley didn’t know if she could outrun the storm, but tonight, she’d decided not to let it drown her.
At 27, Riley was tired. Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep or coffee, but the deep weariness that settles in the bones when every day feels like a battle. She had struggled with her mental health for years: the unshakable weight of depression, the anxiety that turned her thoughts into blizzards of what-ifs, and the sharp loneliness that followed. Life had become a series of half-finished attempts and friends who, despite their love, didn’t quite understand.
She used to have more of them—friends who laughed with her in college, stayed up late watching movies, and swore they’d all grow old together. But over time, their lives moved forward while Riley’s felt like it was folding in on itself. They got jobs and promotions. They fell in love, got married, and had babies. Whenever she saw their pictures online—smiling faces, milestones reached—she felt both happy for them and utterly left behind.
“I’m so sorry I’ve been distant,” she had texted Jenna a month ago, her last remaining close friend. Jenna responded warmly, as always, but it was hard to ignore the gap growing between them. Riley canceled plans more often than not, her excuses varying but her reasons the same: the energy to leave the house just wasn’t there. After enough cancellations, the invitations dwindled.
Today marked her fifth day without speaking to anyone. The silence felt like it might consume her. She’d scrolled through her phone earlier, hovering over contacts she hadn’t messaged in months. “I should call someone,” she whispered to herself. But what would she even say? The truth? That every time she tried to explain her struggle, the words came out wrong? That despite people telling her to “reach out,” she couldn’t shake the guilt that she was a burden?
Instead, she stayed quiet. Quiet had become safe. Quiet didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer.
Outside, the sky darkened, and the rain picked up. Riley could hear the faint sound of cars splashing through puddles on the street below. In some distant part of her mind, she imagined people heading home to warm houses, to dinners with family or movie nights with friends. That life felt a universe away, untouchable.
As the evening wore on, she grabbed her journal—a battered notebook that had become her only confidante. The pages were already filled with tear-streaked entries and half-formed thoughts. She opened to a fresh page and, with trembling hands, began to write:
*“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this—watching everyone else move forward while I’m stuck here. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a storm, screaming for someone to hear me, but no one turns around. Maybe they’ve given up on me. Maybe I’m not worth saving.”*
She stopped, pen hovering above the paper as tears spilled onto her cheeks. She hated feeling this way—resentful, hopeless, invisible—but she didn’t know how to stop it. The isolation only made it worse. She’d convinced herself that everyone else had outlasted her—that she was the friend they once loved but now quietly mourned.
But then, a notification lit up her phone. A text. Jenna.
*“Hey. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here. No judgment, no pressure. I miss you, Riley. And I’m not going anywhere.”*
Riley stared at the message, her vision blurring with tears. She re-read it a dozen times, trying to absorb it. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough. Enough to remind her that not everyone had left. That maybe, even if she couldn’t see it, someone was still standing in the storm with her.
She picked up her phone and, after a long pause, typed back:
*“I miss you too. I’m not okay, but I’m glad you’re here.”*
It felt small, fragile even, but it was a start. And sometimes, when you feel abandoned and outlasted, the smallest step can feel like a victory. Riley didn’t know if she could outrun the storm, but tonight, she’d decided not to let it drown her.
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Panel 1
Scene: Riley sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the rain outside.
Background: A dimly lit bedroom with soft light coming from the window.
Caption (Narration): "The rain was relentless, beating against the window as if it wanted to break through."
Riley’s Expression: Distant, tired, and hollow.
Panel 2
Scene: Riley scrolling through her phone. The screen is illuminated, showing contacts with no recent messages.
Caption (Narration): "She had friends once. But their lives moved forward while hers felt stuck."
Phone Screen: Messages like "Hey, how are you?" left unanswered.
Riley (thought bubble): "I should call someone... but what would I even say?"
Panel 3
Scene: Riley sets her phone down and picks up a battered notebook.
Caption (Narration): "The silence felt safer. Safer than saying the wrong thing or being a burden."
Background Detail: The bed is unkempt, and there are crumpled tissues around her.
Riley’s Expression: A mix of frustration and sadness.
Panel 4
Scene: Close-up of Riley’s journal as she writes.
Text in Journal: “I feel like I’m screaming in a storm, but no one turns around. Maybe they’ve given up on me.”
Caption (Narration): "The words felt heavy, even on the page."
Background: Her hand trembles slightly, and tear droplets fall on the journal.
Panel 5
Scene: A close-up of Riley’s phone lighting up with a notification. The screen shows a message from Jenna:
Message: “Hey. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here. No judgment, no pressure. I miss you, Riley. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Caption (Narration): "A message she didn’t expect."
Lighting: The soft glow of the phone contrasts with the somber tones of the room.
Panel 6
Scene: Riley stares at the phone, tears in her eyes but with a faint smile forming.
Caption (Narration): "It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough."
Background: The rainy window now reflects a faint light of hope from the phone.
Panel 7
Scene: Riley typing back a reply, her fingers hovering before pressing send.
Message Sent: “I miss you too. I’m not okay, but I’m glad you’re here.”
Caption (Narration): "Sometimes, the smallest step can feel like a victory."
Panel 8
Scene: The rain outside begins to clear, with faint sunlight breaking through.
Background: Riley sits on her bed, holding the phone close, with a calm expression—still tired but no longer alone.
Caption (Narration): "She couldn’t outrun the storm, but tonight, she wouldn’t let it drown her."
This story draws upon personal experiences and by writing this and drawing alongside it has given clarity in my head temporarily.