The room felt like a shadow of itself—dimly lit, broken only by the cold glow of the monitor. A girl, thin as a wisp, sat in an old chair, her shoulders drowning in an oversized hoodie. An ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts, sat nearby, its smell seeping into the walls, the air, her hair.

Her gaze was frozen on the screen, but the text before her eyes had long ceased to matter. Her thoughts drifted far away, tangled in a web of worries and questions. The dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights and endless sadness had become a familiar reflection in the mirror. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and felt a wave of nausea roll through her body. She knew it was from weakness, from endless hunger, but food was the last thing she wanted to think about.

Inside—emptiness. Life seemed to have lost its meaning, and the word frailty hung in her mind like an inscription on an old engraving. She felt the connection to this world slipping away, to her parents who seemed to no longer notice her. They were too preoccupied—their noisy lives had left her somewhere in the background.

“What’s next?” she whispered to herself, but no answer came. Her eyes returned to the screen once more. She wanted to escape herself, but where to?

Pain and confusion filled the room, turning it into a capsule of frailty, where even the air felt heavy.