theoneanonlyjohnny

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

Final 

Hannah had never told anyone the scariest thought she ever had. It came late one night while she was babysitting her niece—barely four months old, pure and untouched by the world. Hannah held her close, felt the warmth of her tiny body, and then it hit: What if I ruin her? The thought horrified her. Not because she’d ever act on it, but because it even existed in her mind. That was the moment she knew: trauma doesn’t always make you violent, but it can plant fears so deep you begin to doubt your own goodness. She put the baby down gently and wept. Not out of guilt—but out of the desperate need to break the cycle. She called her therapist the next morning and said, “I need to go deeper. I’m scared of the thoughts I’m having. I want to get better—for her

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

Part 2: 11.

Hannah had a routine when she spiraled. She wouldn’t plan it—but her body knew. She’d skip dinner, light candles, put on music she barely listened to. She’d take a long, too-hot shower and sit on the tile floor until her fingers wrinkled. It was ritual. It was control.

12.

And then came the razor. Or the scalpel. Something sterile, usually, but sometimes she didn’t care. Her hands trembled not from fear—but anticipation. Not pleasure. Just relief. The sick, aching silence in her head would go quiet when the blood came.

13.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t moan. She breathed through it like meditation. The sharp sting was punishment—but it was also the only time she felt real. It made the shame louder and quieter all at once. She never knew how to explain that contradiction to herself.

14.

The pain afterward was worse. Not the physical kind—that dulled fast. But the ache in her chest. The disgust. The panic when she cleaned herself up and saw what she’d done. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she stared blankly at the ceiling for hours. One night, she didn’t move till sunrise.

15.

That morning she didn’t go to work. She just sent an email: “Stomach flu. Back tomorrow.” She wrapped herself in sweatpants and laid on the bathroom floor. Her thighs ached. Her clit throbbed like it was begging her to stop. But she didn’t listen.

16.

She googled: “How to stop hurting your private parts.” The results were useless. Sex blogs. Trauma pages. Reddit threads buried in judgment. Nothing that spoke directly to the girl with blood-stained underwear and a trembling heart.

17.

She thought about telling her sister once. Emily was only 22, still in college, still hopeful. She looked at Hannah like she was some kind of superhero. That night, Hannah almost called her. She held the phone. Typed: “Can I tell you something hard?” But deleted it before pressing send.

18.

There were nights she wished someone would find her. Walk in. Say “Stop it. What are you doing to yourself?” But no one ever came. No one ever saw the towels in the trash or the way she winced when she sat down too fast. Her secret was airtight.

19.

She stopped dating completely. Sex wasn’t possible. Not just the pain—but the shame. How could she explain the scars, the damage, the part of her that didn’t feel safe anymore? She felt broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed with foreplay or tenderness.

20.

She kept a shoebox under her bed. Razors. Wipes. Gauze. The box was sacred and sick. She hated it. She needed it. Once she threw it away. Then went to Walgreens at 2 a.m. in a hoodie to replace it. The man at the counter didn’t ask why she was buying blades and bandages.

21.

When her period came, it felt like punishment. Everything hurt worse. Her body throbbed with reminders of what she’d done. The cramps made her sob sometimes, not just from pain—but because they made her feel used, even when no one touched her.

22.

She wondered if she could still have kids. Not that she wanted them, not now. But part of her feared she had ruined that possibility. That her secret addiction had stolen something too vital, too sacred, to ever get back.

23.

Sometimes she didn’t even know why she did it. There was no clear trigger. Just a shadow that passed over her day. A flicker of disgust. A memory she didn’t consciously feel, but her body reacted to anyway. It was like her trauma had a mind of its own.

24.

She journaled once, trying to track the pattern. “What makes me do this?” she wrote. “What am I trying to cut away?” But the questions felt heavier than the answers. So she stopped. The pages stayed blank after that.

25.

Her therapist didn’t know. She went for anxiety. For panic attacks. They talked about childhood, about being raised in a house where her mother called her “filthy” when she touched herself as a kid. But Hannah didn’t say what she did now. It felt too late.

26.

She told herself, “This is manageable.” But it wasn’t. Her clit was swollen for days after the last time. She walked funny. She bled a little through her underwear. She felt sick just looking at herself in the mirror.

27.

And then one night, she went too far. A deeper cut than usual. The blood wouldn’t stop. She panicked. Sat on the toilet, rocking back and forth, whispering “It’s okay, it’s okay” like a prayer. But it wasn’t okay.

28.

She didn’t go to the hospital. She should have. But shame wrapped around her like a leash. Instead, she shoved gauze between her legs and laid on the floor, shaking, thinking, This is how it ends. This is how I rot alone in a bathroom like some warning story.

29.

That night broke her. Something inside her cracked. Not the pain. Not even the fear. But the realization that she no longer controlled it. It controlled her. And if she didn’t do something, it would take everything.

30.

She imagined telling a doctor. “I hurt myself sexually. Not for pleasure, but because I don’t know how to feel alive anymore.” She practiced the words out loud, just to hear them. They sounded foreign. Like someone else’s story.

31.

She called a clinic the next day. Didn’t say why. Just asked if they had trauma specialists. Her voice shook. They offered a slot in two weeks. She almost canceled. But she didn’t.

32.

In the meantime, she sat with the urge like it was a caged animal in her chest. It clawed at her. Begged her to relapse. She held pillows tight between her legs. Bit her lip. Screamed into towels. Anything but that.

33.

She deleted her stash. The box under the bed. The backups in the bathroom drawer. All of it. She cried as she threw it away. Not because she was proud—but because it felt like she was saying goodbye to something she didn’t know how to live without.

34.

Two days passed. Then four. The urges came in waves. She counted minutes, then hours. Then one day she woke up and realized—she hadn’t hurt herself in six days. The longest in months.

35.

Her therapist’s office smelled like peppermint and lavender. Hannah didn’t look her in the eye at first. But when the therapist said, “Tell me what’s hurting,” something inside Hannah unlocked.

36.

She didn’t tell everything that first day. Just enough. Enough to feel seen. Enough to cry in front of someone without hiding. Enough to feel like maybe—maybe—she wasn’t completely alone.

37.

Recovery wasn’t straight. It never is. She relapsed two weeks later. But she told someone. And they didn’t scream. They didn’t judge. They said, “Okay. Let’s try again.”

38.

And that’s what she did. Again. And again. Every day she fought the voice that told her she wasn’t worth saving. Every day she chose not to bleed.

39.

By page 40 of her own journal, she wrote, “I wanted to bite the pain away. But now, I want to live more than I want to escape.” It wasn’t poetic. It was just real. And sometimes, real is enough.

40.

Hannah’s secret never fully disappeared. But it stopped ruling her. It became a scar she could talk about. A truth she could carry, without cutting herself to feel it.

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

📘 Hannah’s Secret

A mental health drama in 40+ paragraphs

(Part 1 of the story follows; let me know if you want the full version delivered in sections or all at once.)

⸻

1.

Hannah didn’t tell anyone about the secret she carried between her legs. It wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual. A shame so deep, it shaped the way she looked at the mirror each morning. Not with vanity, not even with indifference, but with a quiet, practiced hatred.

2.

She was 30 years old. A woman who paid her bills, showed up to work, helped her younger sister with college paperwork, and still laughed when her old college roommate sent memes. She looked fine. But inside, she was trapped in something much darker than most people could imagine.

3.

Her compulsion didn’t have a name she liked. She called it “the edge,” because it always brought her right to one—of pain, of guilt, of feeling alive, or maybe wanting to disappear. It began in college after a breakup that shattered her understanding of intimacy. Something inside her snapped, quietly, and never quite reconnected right.

4.

At first, the pain was a relief. A way to ground herself. A strange kind of rebellion against the numbness. But over time, it morphed into something compulsive, cruel. She would use whatever was near—razors, sharp tweezers, even safety pins. It didn’t feel sexual. It felt desperate.

5.

She knew it wasn’t normal. Knew it wasn’t safe. She researched it late at night, heart pounding. The few forums that mentioned it were vague, shrouded in stigma. No one talked openly about genital self-harm. Most people wouldn’t believe her if she tried.

6.

There were days when she could go weeks without it. She’d think she was finally okay, finally out of that spiral. But then something would trigger her—an offhand comment about sex, a memory, a bad date—and it would come back like an itch under her skin. Always whispering: just one more time.

7.

She was terrified someone would find out. Not just because of judgment, but because she didn’t know how to explain it. “I hurt myself where it matters most,” she imagined saying. “Because I hate myself that much.” But who could she even say that to?

8.

Relationships were nearly impossible. The closer someone got, the more exposed she felt. She kept her underwear on during sex. She blamed UTIs for flinching when touched. No one ever asked too much. And when one man finally did—really asked—she ghosted him. The truth was too big to speak.

9.

The worst part was how normal she looked. How no one ever asked, “Are you okay?” She learned to smile like armor. Makeup, good outfits, a sarcastic tone. It all kept people at a distance. Because if anyone really looked, really saw her—they’d leave. Wouldn’t they?

10.

But something began to change the day she found a journal entry from years ago. One she didn’t remember writing. It read: “Someday this secret will kill me, unless I let someone help me carry it.” She didn’t know what made her write that, but it shook her. Deeply.

⸻

Would you like me to continue the next 30 paragraphs in this tone and direction—leading to the moment she finally seeks help and attempts to stop the cycle?

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

Character log : all made up by me and chose random names

Some of their behaviours came from real people

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

450 days part :4

Hannah was crying—again. The sharp, high-pitched kind that cut through the silence and pressed on everyone’s nerves like a knife.

Jaron stood over her little cloth-padded corner, jaw tight. “She cries when you hold her.”

Dylan looked up sharply from where he was bouncing Jonathan in his arms. “She cried because she’s a baby, not because of me. Jesus.”

“No. She knows. She knows who her father is.” Jaron crouched beside Hannah and scooped her up, cradling her to his chest. She quieted a little, her whimpers softening.

“Wow. So now you’re the magic parent?” Dylan spat. “You’re the chosen one because she shuts up for five seconds?”

Jaron didn’t look at him. “You said Jonathan had your eyes. Take him. Leave Hannah out of your game.”

Dylan stood slowly. His eyes darkened. “They’re both mine. I was the first to touch her. The first one to say her name. You think that doesn’t count for something?”

Izzy, seated on the floor against the wall, didn’t move. She stared at them with hollow eyes, rocking slowly, back and forth. “She has my hands,” she said quietly. “Long fingers. Strong grip. Jonathan has my heartbeat. I swear I can feel it in his chest when I hold him.”

Neither man looked at her.

“I don’t care what you think,” Jaron growled. “I know when she’s hurting. I know how she likes to be held—left side, tucked in. I’m the one who soothed her when she couldn’t breathe on Day 80. Where the hell were you?”

Dylan stepped forward. “Feeding Jonathan with the last banana skin we boiled, remember that? Or did you forget we’re all bleeding for these kids in different ways?”

Izzy stood now. The rocking stopped.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “Not while you’re fighting over names and features like it’s a custody hearing and not survival. You want to know who their father is? Fine. Both of you are. Every time you feed them, rock them, hold them through a nightmare, you’re writing your names into their blood.”

Her voice broke. “But if this fighting breaks them before the white room does, I’ll never forgive either of you.”

They were quiet after that. Jaron kissed Hannah’s temple, slowly. Dylan sat down beside Izzy, Jonathan asleep against his chest. The fight would come again—of course it would. But in that moment, their silence wasn’t surrender. It was agreement.

They were fathers now. All of them. And the white room would not be the end of them.

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

450 days in the white room 3:))

They sat in a triangle. No one spoke at first. The babies were asleep. The room was humming—not with noise, but with the weight of everything they hadn’t said yet.

Jaron finally broke the silence. “I think we should talk about how we got here.”

Izzy stared at him. “You mean here like 230 days into being lab rats, or here like how I gave birth on the floor of a sterile prison cell?”

Jaron hesitated. Dylan didn’t. “He means the second thing.”

“Of course he does,” Izzy muttered, dragging a hand through her tangled hair.

Jaron leaned forward. “I’m not asking for a blood test. I just… I need to know. I need to know how it happened.”

Izzy looked between them, her face calm but tight. “We were starving. We were cold. We were human. You both touched me like you were afraid I’d disappear. You both asked for nothing and gave everything. I didn’t choose one of you. I chose not to be alone.”

Dylan looked down at his hands. “So you don’t know which one…?”

“I might,” Izzy said softly. “But it doesn’t matter. You think naming the father changes what it took to bring them into this world? You think it changes who’s held them at 3am, who’s shared food for them, who’s been climbing walls trying to protect them?”

Jaron exhaled, his chest tight. “I think it changes how I see myself. Because if Jonathan’s mine, and I’ve been avoiding him, then I’ve failed. And if he’s yours,” he looked at Dylan, “and I still love him—what does that make me?”

Dylan blinked hard. “It makes you a father, Jaron. Either way.”

Izzy’s voice cracked—only slightly. “You’re both their fathers. You’re both mine, too, in a way. Whether we asked for this or not.”

They sat in the hum of the white room again. Quieter this time. Not because there was nothing to say—but because what had been said was enough for now.

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

450 days in part 2:)

The room had stopped feeling sterile long ago. It breathed now—humid, electric, soaked in body heat and tension. Jaron sat with his back against the far wall, eyes narrowed, watching Izzy pace like a caged animal. Dylan was on the floor, legs stretched, chin propped in his palm. No one spoke. They hadn’t needed to in days.

The hunger had shifted. No longer for food, but for something else—touch, closeness, power, release. The banana ration had become a ritual: passed hand to hand with eye contact that lingered too long. The first time Izzy had fed them both in silence, fingers brushing lips, she hadn’t meant for it to start anything. But it did.

That night, the distance between them vanished. It started with Dylan’s fingers on her wrist. A small thing. Then Jaron moved behind her, hand on the small of her back, silent and steady. She didn’t pull away. The stillness in her was not fear—it was readiness. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting each of theirs. “If we’re doing this,” she said softly, “we do it together. No lies. No shame.”

The first kiss was from Dylan—quick, uncertain. The second, deeper, came from Jaron. They pressed in, bodies warm from days without barriers. There was hunger, yes, but gentleness, too. Every movement was deliberate, like a shared secret being written into skin. The silence of the white room held them, swallowed their gasps and laughter, turned it sacred.

Over the next weeks, intimacy became survival. Not just sex—but connection, grounding, a way to stay sane. They learned each other’s rhythms, moods, preferences. And then, around Day 42, Izzy began to wonder. Her body felt different. Her cycle had not returned. She said nothing, not at first. But the knowing grew inside her like a second heartbeat.

By Day 60, when the white door finally slid open, Izzy stepped into the light carrying more than memory. Later, when the children were born—Hannah, with Jaron’s quiet strength, and Jonathan, with Dylan’s bright gaze—they would never know how it all began. But Izzy would. And she would never forget the way the white room had turned strangers into something almost sacred.

[theoneanonlyjohnny]

450 days in the white room.

Three strangers. One room. No way out. A single banana and a glass of water a day. And tension building like static in the air…

Izzy didn’t know why she was here—just that the door locked behind her and the walls glared with sterile, perfect white. Jaron and Dylan arrived a day later. No clocks, no sunlight. Just hunger, boredom, and the heat of constant proximity.

For days they spoke in whispers, sharing rations and theories. But slowly, the pressure built. Looks lingered too long. Bodies brushed too close. Power shifted. Games began. Izzy started to tease, testing boundaries. Dylan watched. Jaron smoldered.

By Day 15, the room wasn’t so cold anymore.