thoughtdaughterswords

[thoughtdaughterswords]

Empty Skin:

Tw: childhood loneliness, friendship abandonment, emotional neglect

✦ Chapter 3

The Day Everyone Forgot:

Indya never liked birthdays.

Not because of the cake or the candles—she liked those things well enough. It was the empty chairs that got to her.

She remembered one in particular. Eight years old. Hair yanked into stiff curls her mother forced her to sit still for. Paper plates with unicorns. Pink lemonade sweating in plastic cups. And silence—the kind that pressed in so heavy, it drowned out everything that should have been there.

No one came.

The clock ticked past the time on the invitations. Her mother’s smile cracked first, irritation blooming where disappointment should’ve been. Indya sat perfectly still, legs swinging just above the floor, a party hat slipping slowly off her head.

She didn’t cry. She never cried in front of people.

But that night, curled up in her too-small bed, she whispered, Maybe they just forgot.

And for a second, it almost sounded like hope.

⸻

She remembered another year. Different house. Different cake. Same ache.

This time, she had a best friend. The kind you make friendship bracelets for. The kind you defend at recess even after everyone else stops talking to her.

Every year, Indya showed up for her. First one there, last one to leave. Helped carry gifts to her mom’s car. Held her hand during scary movies.

But when it was Indya’s birthday?

There was always a reason.

“We’re going away that weekend.”

“She’s sick.”

“Oh, she forgot to tell me.”

For her 18th, they had plans. A sleepover. Just the two of them. Weeks of whispered excitement, swapped secrets, inside jokes stacked like a fragile promise.

But when the night came, she didn’t show.

No call. No apology. Just silence—and then the pictures the next morning, of her clinging to her boyfriend like Indya never existed.

Indya didn’t leave the house for three days.

Not because she didn’t want to.

Because she had to cover for her.

Had to lie. Had to say she was at Indya’s, even as Indya sat alone with a half-melted cake and silence louder than any scream.

She wanted to cry. To smash something. To disappear.

But all she did was hold her breath and pretend it didn’t hurt.

Because it always had to be fine.

She blew out the candles by herself, wishing for something small.

Please let her come next time.

She didn’t.

And maybe that’s the year Indya stopped inviting people.

⸻

Now, years later, she walks past the dorm courtyard.

A small cluster of voices—bright and blurred—singing Happy Birthday to someone whose face she doesn’t even look at.

The candles flicker in the dark. Trembling little flames that could be swallowed whole by one breath or a careless hand.

Indya stops.

Just for a second.

The cold presses in. The laughter feels miles away.

And inside her chest, something old and broken stirs. The ghosts of every forgotten year rise up—quiet, familiar, cruel.

Her throat tightens.

She swallows it down.

Folds it into that hollow place where hope used to live.

Then she turns.

And keeps walking.

Because some wounds don’t bleed anymore.

They just ache—soft and steady—like a secret you never tell anyone.

[thoughtdaughterswords]

Empty skin:

tw: mental illness, bpd mention, autism mention, anxiety/panic attacks, emotional distress, self-worth issues, family trauma, sensory overload, depressive thoughts

✦ Chapter 2

Between Shadows:

The dorm room was smaller than she remembered.

Grey walls. A single window staring out at a brick wall, soaked in shadow.

Indya sat on the edge of the bed, legs pulled tight to her chest, like if she squeezed hard enough she might fold herself out of existence.

Her hands trembled—not from cold, but from the weight of silence pressing down on her chest.

The phone call was over, but his voice still clung to her ribs like smoke, tightening.

She pulled the threadbare blanket tighter.

A futile shield against the noise in her head.

The city outside was alive—cars honking, sirens wailing, voices rising—but none of it reached her here.

Her eyes landed on the copy of White Oleander on her desk, spine cracked, pages worn soft.

She’d been reading it like a map. Hoping it would show her the way out of herself.

But the words only bled cold.

“You think you can escape,” she whispered,

“but the cracks follow you.”

She touched her septum ring—cold metal against warm skin—and thought about the weight she carried.

Not just the diagnoses.

Not just the spirals.

But the invisible bruises from a family that never knew how to love her.

Outside, the city pulsed like a living thing.

Inside her, everything was frozen.

She wasn’t in class. She hadn’t unpacked.

There was no party waiting for her tonight.

Because parties weren’t for girls like her—

Girls who counted seconds instead of breaths.

Who felt like ghosts in other people’s worlds.

Her throat tightened.

“I’m still here,” she whispered to no one.

“But I don’t know for how long.”

Maybe that was the real test—

Not surviving her diagnoses,

Or the weight of a broken home—

But learning how to breathe through the quiet.

Because the worst part wasn’t being broken.

It was living with it anyway.

The knock came before she could move.

“Hey! I’m Maya—your roommate! Just dropping stuff off!”

The door swung open.

A whirlwind.

Bright neon sneakers. Oversized sweatshirt. Earbuds dangling. Voice too loud, too fast.

Maya bounced in like a firework with legs, her words ricocheting off the walls.

Indya shrank against the wall.

The lights buzzed like bees.

The mango body spray stung her nose.

The floor squeaked with every one of Maya’s steps—sharp, rhythmic, slicing through her skull.

“Just came from a concert! Did you check out the welcome party? You gotta come, it’s gonna be wild—!”

Indya’s vision blurred.

Her breath hitched.

She bolted.

Bathroom. Lock. Breathe.

The door shut behind her like a heartbeat.

She pressed her back against the tile, palms over her ears.

Maya’s voice still spilled through the walls. Muffled, but unrelenting.

Tears slid down her cheeks without asking.

The panic was loud, but the silence underneath it was louder.

She curled in tight on the floor.

The tiles were cold.

Real.

Her fingers found the cracks in the grout.

She breathed.

Shallow. Then slower.

“Okay. You’re okay.”

Not calm. But not drowning. Not yet.

When she unlocked the door, the room was quiet.

Maya was gone.

The silence was heavy, but it didn’t hurt as much.

Indya lay on the stiff mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Still.

Blank.

The memory of the bathroom clung to her.

And the girl who burst in like a firework no one asked for.

This was always how it started.

She let people in. Carefully.

And they crushed her softness like it was disposable.

Not on purpose.

Just… carelessness.

Like her vulnerability was a burden.

Her pain, a performance.

She’d always been surrounded by people who felt nothing.

And she felt everything.

It was exhausting.

Carrying their emotions when they wouldn’t even hold hers.

She tried.

Over and over.

To be open. To be honest.

But it always ended the same.

A sigh. A look.

“You’re too much.”

They called it drama.

Said she wanted attention.

Because mental illness doesn’t exist unless it’s theirs.

She learned to bleed quietly.

To smile while she shattered.

Now, lying beneath the scratchy blanket, she felt it settle again:

That sharp, aching truth.

No one had ever really seen her.

Not the girl in the mirror.

Not the child in the psychiatrist’s office.

Not the teenager with eyes too wide for her own face.

And Maya wouldn’t either.

She wanted to disappear again.

To dissolve into silence.

But instead, she stared up at the ceiling, tears stinging her lashes, and whispered:

“I wish I didn’t feel anything at all.”

And the room said nothing back.

[thoughtdaughterswords]

Empty Skin:

TW: body image, disordered eating, self-harm (non-graphic), toxic parent dynamics, mental illness (BPD/autism), emotional neglect, suicidal ideation (implied), fatphobia, trauma.

✦ Chapter One

The Body is a Strange Room:

The mirror didn’t lie.

But it didn’t tell the truth either.

It just held her there—suspended.

Indya leaned in, forehead pressed to the cool glass, breath fogging around her nose ring. The fluorescent dorm light buzzed above like it knew something she didn’t.

Her fingers traced the angles of her face. Too sharp in some places. Too soft in others. Cheekbones like accusations. Lips that never knew what to say. Eyes that looked green but felt empty. Not green like nature—green like envy. Like sickness. Like algae in still water.

She pulled at the skin beneath her chin, watching it stretch. Watched it snap back. Disgusting. Fascinating. A body she couldn’t exit. A face she didn’t recognize, but had spent nineteen years inhabiting. Like someone had rented her this skin and never gave her the key to get out.

She noticed everything. The constellation of faint acne scars on her jaw. The thinness of her wrists. The way her septum ring always sat a little crooked. The eyebrow piercing was still healing, still red. Like her body rejected adornment the same way it rejected connection.

“You don’t even look real.”

She whispered it to the glass. No one answered. Not even her reflection.

She didn’t know if she was ugly or beautiful or neither. She didn’t know if she was too much or not enough.

What she did know—what she had always known—was that something about her had been broken before she even had the chance to understand what it meant to be whole.

She blinked, and tears slid silently down her cheeks, like they’d just gotten tired of waiting for permission.

This was supposed to be her fresh start.

College. A new city. New people. A blank canvas.

But already, the edges were bleeding.

She turned off the light.

The mirror went dark.

⸻

✦ Flashback

The Evaluation

The smell brought her back first—

Cheap disinfectant, citrusy but not quite. Like something trying too hard to be clean. It was the same sterile scent in the dorm bathroom.

Suddenly, she was twelve again.

Sitting in Dr. Kochtov’s office.

Staring at a fake ficus. Pretending she didn’t hear her name.

She hadn’t spoken in three days.

Not at school. Not at home. Not to the guidance counselor.

Not to the girl who passed her a note that said are you okay?

The answer had been written all over her arms, anyway.

Indya sat curled in the chair, sleeves over her hands, hoodie smelling like the corner of her bedroom where the window never opened.

Her mother sat beside her, legs crossed, bored and cold.

“She won’t talk,” her mom said flatly.

“She just sits there. Doesn’t eat unless I remind her. Spends hours staring at the wall like a goddamn ghost. Then I find razors in her pencil case. I mean, what am I supposed to do with that?”

Dr. Kochtov nodded the way adults do when they’re trying not to look afraid.

“Has this been going on a while?” he asked gently.

“She’s always been like this. Dramatic. Sensitive. Weird,” her mother snapped. “I thought she’d grow out of it. But it’s like… she’s disappearing.”

Disappearing.

Indya kept staring at the ficus.

Imagining herself somewhere else.

Somewhere her brain didn’t feel like it was eating itself alive.

The evaluation took weeks. First, they gave it a name:

Borderline Personality Disorder.

Then another: Autism Spectrum Disorder.

“Level one,” they said. Like that made it easier.

Her mother left the office holding a pamphlet like it was a parking ticket.

Later, Indya heard her on the phone:

“They said she’s got both—I mean, what are the odds?

I always knew something was off. She’s not like other kids. She’s… exhausting.”

Indya lay on her bed, arms raw and aching, and thought:

Maybe I was never meant to be fixable.

⸻

✦ Flashback

The Weight of Being Her Daughter

“Hold still.”

The brush snagged another knot and yanked hard.

Indya winced, but didn’t flinch. If she did, her mom would call her dramatic again.

Every night: same floor, same brush, same battle.

Hair as a war zone. Silence as armor.

“You always let it get like this,” her mother muttered.

“You don’t take care of anything. Not your room, not your hair, not your—”

The brush got stuck again. This time, the tug was personal.

“If you lost a bit of weight, maybe it wouldn’t tangle so much.

You’re ten. You shouldn’t have hips already.”

Indya stared at the beige carpet, trying to be less.

She’d tried—skipping lunch, hiding cereal, baggy clothes.

But she was too much of everything her mother hated about herself.

First diet at eight.

No white bread. No sweets. “Slimming World rules.”

Food became a punishment. A bargaining chip. A threat.

By ten, she knew the calories in a banana better than her times tables.

She’d pinch her stomach until it turned red—proof she wasn’t making it up.

Proof she deserved to be hated.

“If you ever want boys to notice you, you’ll have to start caring how you look.”

The brush dropped. Her mom left like she’d done something generous.

Like love looked like torn hair and hunger.

Indya sat on the carpet a little longer, hair stinging against her back, and thought:

I think I was born wrong.

⸻

✦ Present Day

Page 146 of White Oleander

She blinked.

The bathroom light still buzzed behind her.

She hadn’t noticed how long she’d been standing there, trapped in some bruised corner of her brain.

Her scalp ached. Like the ghost of her mother had followed her here with a brush in hand.

She padded back to bed.

The dorm was beige. Generic. Microwave noodles and loneliness.

White Oleander lay open on her pillow—page 146, face-down, waiting.

“The phoenix must burn to emerge.”

She traced the line in blue pen.

Burn first.

How poetic.

How useless.

Everyone else was probably at some welcome party.

Drunk on newness, taking blurry flash photos in the club bathroom.

Girls pretending to be best friends already.

Indya couldn’t even pretend.

The idea of flashing lights and drunk small talk made her skin crawl.

Her autism wouldn’t let her escape. She noticed too much. Felt too loud.

She couldn’t melt into a crowd.

And she hated herself for it.

This was supposed to be a fresh start.

But already, she was hiding behind a book like it was armor.

Maybe tomorrow she’d go outside.

Maybe she’d text someone.

Or maybe she’d just read White Oleander again.

It was the only thing in this place that understood the weight of being someone like her.

⸻

✦ Phone Call

Unknown Number

Her phone buzzed.

9:12 AM.

Unknown number.

But she knew.

He never saved her in his phone. She never deleted him—just renamed him:

“Dad?” — with a question mark.

She answered on the last ring.

“Hello?”

A pause. His voice, unsure. Like she might be a stranger.

“Hey, Indie.”

Her stomach flipped. No one called her that anymore.

“Hi.”

“How’s New York?”

She looked outside. Grey sky. A guy in flip-flops smoking outside.

It didn’t feel like New York. It didn’t feel like anywhere.

“It’s fine.”

“You settled in okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You got your… meds and stuff?”

There it was again. Stuff.

Never the words.

Not your BPD. Not your autism.

Always those moods or your thing.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“I know we haven’t talked much. I just… wanted to check in. Your mom said you left yesterday.”

“She didn’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to call.”

Another pause. She could almost see him, in some kitchen, trying to feel like a father.

“I didn’t know how to help you back then.”

“You left.”

“I thought if I stayed, I’d make it worse. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You did.”

Silence. Heavy. Honest.

“I’m sorry, Indya.”

She didn’t say it’s okay. It wasn’t.

But still, her voice cracked when she whispered:

“I know.”

They sat in the quiet together.

A broken father.

A girl too tired to hate him anymore.

“I should go,” she said.

“Yeah. Good luck today.

She hung up.

And for the first time in years, she felt like maybe—

just maybe—

someone missed her.

Even if it didn’t change a thing.