The Sharks, the Ocean, and the Shore: A Story They’ll Never Deserve to Hear

“Whoever abandoned you in the middle of the ocean has no right to know what the sharks did to you or how you made it to the shore.”

There are moments that fracture you.

Not in loud, catastrophic ways — but in quiet, shattering silences.

Like when someone walks away — not during calm waters, but right in the middle of your storm.

When you’re gasping for air, hoping someone will notice you’re barely afloat.

But they didn’t. They left. Quietly. Casually.

And just like that, you were alone.

Alone in an ocean too deep for words.

With nothing but your breath, breaking, and your heart, sinking.

I remember the first night they were gone.

I laid in bed, frozen — not from the cold, but from the hollowness.

It was like being submerged, fully clothed, in an ocean of silence.

My phone didn’t ring.

My door didn’t knock.

No one came.

And the worst part?

I kept checking — hoping the ones who left would realize the storm was never meant to be faced alone.

But all I got was stillness.

The kind that presses against your chest and asks:

“If you disappeared right now, would anyone notice?”

The Sharks

People think pain arrives as tragedy.

But it doesn’t always.

Sometimes, it arrives as a whisper:

“You’re too much.”

“You’ll never be enough.”

“No one stays.”

Those were my sharks.

Depression didn’t just knock — it moved in.

Loneliness wasn’t just a visitor — it took the front seat.

And self-doubt? It curled up beside me like a shadow.

I remember crying at 3 AM,

the kind of crying where your body goes numb,

and you stare at the ceiling, wondering how the hell you’re still here.

But still — I swam.

Not because I felt strong.

But because I had no choice.

There were mornings I didn’t want to open my eyes.

Days where brushing my hair felt like a victory.

Nights where even the silence felt loud enough to break me.

But there was a tiny flicker inside me —

a whisper beneath the roar:

“Keep going.”

So I did.

Without applause.

Without anyone watching.

I kept kicking.

Some days I floated.

Some days I sank.

But I never fully gave up.

The Shore

And one day… I felt ground beneath me.

I had made it.

Not triumphant. Not healed. But alive.

My legs trembled. My heart was tired.

But I stood.

The version of me who stepped onto that shore?

She was made of quiet strength.

She had salt in her wounds,

fire in her eyes,

and an ocean in her chest that knew what drowning felt like.

And now, the people who left?

They ask:

“What happened after I left?”

“How did you make it through?”

“Tell me everything.”

No.

You don’t get to read the story

if you were never willing to sit through the storm.

You don’t get to know the names of the sharks,

or the nights I begged the moon for mercy.

You don’t get to know how I stitched myself back together

with trembling hands and tired bones.

You don’t get to say you’re proud

when you didn’t even show up.

To Those Still in the Water

Maybe you’re still in the ocean.

Maybe your arms ache, your heart is heavy,

and your faith feels thin.

I know how that feels.

The kind of loneliness that doesn’t just hurt — but lingers.

The kind of silence that doesn’t comfort — but swallows.

But I promise you —

you are not weak for struggling.

You are powerful for staying.

And even if it doesn’t feel like it right now,

you’re getting closer to shore.

Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every tear —

it’s movement.

One day, you’ll stand where I stood.

And you’ll look back and realize —

You didn’t need a rescue.

You became your own.

And to the ones who left:

You don’t deserve the new version of me.

You don’t get to trace these scars and call it healing.

You don’t get access to a story

you never helped write.

Let them wonder.

Let them guess.

Because this survival?

It wasn’t for them.

It was always, always for me.