What matters to you

by Babycord

Rating: teen
Tags: Suicide / Self Harm, Tragedy, Violence, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Second Person, Other, Original Character
Length: 15961

I have to help

Tranquil is a unicorn who lived his entire life in a mental Care facility. While there he becomes an instant hit.

This is how one pony can help in the life of so many others.

Published 2024-11-10 14:40:01 UTC
Last updated 2024-11-10 14:40:01 UTC

I see you

The sounds of the world outside the mental health facility seemed distant to Echo. It wasn’t that she couldn’t hear, but the noise felt muted, as though a thick fog had settled around her, muffling the world. Echo’s world had always been quieter than most. The soft rustling of leaves, the hum of distant conversations—these were things that barely registered for her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to hear; she simply couldn’t.

Her condition, a hearing impairment that had been with her since birth, had always set her apart. At first, her family had been understanding, doing their best to create an environment where Echo could thrive despite her challenges. But as she got older, the world became less accommodating. It was easier to dismiss her, ignore her, and treat her as if her silence was a flaw that needed fixing. As time passed, Echo began to feel more and more isolated from the rest of the world. Her friends had gradually drifted away, unable to understand the limitations her condition placed on her. And soon, she found herself withdrawing even further, trapped in a silent prison.

It wasn’t the lack of sound that hurt the most. It was the loneliness that accompanied it. Echo had learned to read lips and communicate through gestures, but it was never enough to make her feel connected. The simple act of hearing someone’s voice, the way their words could uplift or comfort, was something she would never experience in the same way. There was a wall between her and the rest of the world, one that she couldn’t break down.

It was in this state of isolation that Echo met Tranquil. He was a fellow patient at the facility, a quiet pony who seemed to notice when others were struggling, even when they didn’t speak. He was an observer, someone who preferred listening to talking. Echo had learned early on that some ponies could talk endlessly about their struggles, but the ones who truly understood didn’t need to say much at all.

One afternoon, as Echo sat in the common room, staring out the window at the fading sunlight, Tranquil approached. His presence was soothing, as though the mere act of being around him made everything feel less heavy. She had never spoken to him directly, but she had noticed the way he seemed to silently offer support to others, always there when they needed it.

Today, he sat next to her, leaving a comfortable distance between them. There was no need for words—he simply waited, like he always did. Echo appreciated the silence; sometimes, that was all she needed.

After a few minutes, Tranquil broke the quiet, his voice low and calm. “It’s hard, isn’t it? The world doesn’t always make space for us.”

Echo turned her gaze to him, the faintest flicker of gratitude in her eyes. She had never felt like anyone truly understood before. She shook her head, her lips barely moving as she signed the words: “It’s not just the silence. It’s the way people treat me like I’m less because of it.”

Tranquil nodded, his expression empathetic. “I understand. People often don’t know how to handle what they don’t understand.”

Echo’s hooves trembled slightly as she signed again. “I’m tired of always having to prove I’m capable. I just want to be seen for who I am, not for what I can’t do.”

There was a long pause before Tranquil responded, his voice soft but filled with sincerity. “You are seen. And you are enough, just as you are. The way you see the world may be different, but it doesn’t make you any less valuable.”

His words, simple as they were, made something shift inside Echo. She had spent so long trying to be like everyone else, trying to force herself into a mold that didn’t fit. She had forgotten what it felt like to just be herself, without needing to prove anything.

But as much as his words comforted her, there was a painful truth she had to face. The world wasn’t going to change for her, and sometimes, even the kindest of ponies couldn’t fix what was broken inside. There were days when the weight of her silence felt like it would swallow her whole, days when she couldn’t see any way out of the cage she had built around herself.

Tranquil, sensing the depth of Echo’s thoughts, spoke again, his tone gentle yet firm. “Sometimes, it’s about taking small steps. You don’t have to change everything at once. You don’t have to fix it all. Just... start with being kind to yourself.”

Echo signed slowly, her hooves trembling slightly as she formed the words. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to start,” Tranquil replied. “Start by acknowledging what you feel, even if it’s hard. You don’t have to be strong all the time. And when you’re ready, when you feel like you can, you’ll find ways to connect with others on your terms.”

The thought of connecting with others—truly connecting—was terrifying to Echo. It had been so long since she had felt like part of something, and the idea of putting herself out there again made her feel vulnerable, exposed. But Tranquil’s words were a small flicker of hope, a reminder that maybe she didn’t have to stay locked in her silent world forever.

As the evening sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the room, Echo realized that her journey would be long and filled with challenges. But for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel completely alone. There was a space for her in this world, even if she had to carve it out for herself, step by step.

And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to connect without needing to change who she was.

Petals of the past.

The garden at Suncrest Care Facility stirred to life in the gentle embrace of morning light. Dew clung to each petal and leaf, glistening like little stars as the sunlight began to peek over the tops of the trees. Lavender and chamomile lined the stone path that wound through the beds of flowers, their fragrances mingling in the cool air. The garden was tranquil in every sense—a place where time seemed to slow, where worries softened in the presence of nature’s quiet beauty.

Tranquil often found himself here, walking through the beds of flowers, letting their scents and colors calm his mind. He loved the early morning, before the facility’s usual bustle began, when the world felt peaceful and almost untouched.

As he rounded a corner in the path, he noticed a familiar figure sitting alone on a bench. A young mare with a soft pink coat and a mane the color of deep, blooming roses was sitting quietly, her head tilted downward as though she were deep in thought or perhaps lost somewhere far away. Her mane hung loosely over her face, hiding her expression, but Tranquil could sense the heaviness in her posture, a silent ache she carried like an invisible burden.

He recognized her—Rose Petal. She had arrived at Suncrest only a few weeks ago, and though she kept mostly to herself, Tranquil had heard fragments of her story. Her mother had recently passed away, leaving her adrift in a sea of memories and unspoken grief. Her eyes, when he had seen them in passing, held a deep sadness that words rarely touched.

Tranquil approached her quietly, not wanting to intrude on her solitude but feeling drawn to reach out, to offer some small comfort. He held a small basket of flowers he had gathered earlier that morning—lavender, daisies, and a single rose that reminded him of the vibrant red of her mane. He set the basket on the bench beside her, gently enough that she barely noticed, and then he sat down a respectful distance away, letting the silence settle between them.

For a few moments, they sat side by side, each of them watching the way the sunlight painted patterns across the garden beds. Tranquil knew the importance of silence, how sometimes words could be an interruption instead of a comfort. So, he waited, letting Rose feel his presence without any demand.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity wrapped in quiet, Rose shifted slightly, her gaze flickering over to the basket of flowers he had set beside her.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured, her voice soft, barely more than a whisper. Her eyes lingered on the rose, a delicate bloom with petals the color of sunset. She reached out, her hoof grazing its soft petals as though she were afraid it might disappear if she touched it too fully.

Tranquil smiled gently, his gaze following hers. “I thought you might like them,” he said, his voice as calm as the morning itself. “I didn’t know if you had a favorite, so I chose a few different kinds. Roses, lavender…some daisies. Simple things, but they can be comforting, don’t you think?”

Rose nodded, her gaze still focused on the rose. She didn’t say anything, but he could see a faint light in her eyes, something beyond the shadows that had clung to her since her arrival. She looked at the rose as though it held a piece of something she had lost, something that lingered in the edges of memory.

“My mother loved roses,” she said quietly, her voice barely louder than the soft breeze that stirred the leaves around them. “She had a whole garden of them. Different colors, different types… She used to say that roses were like ponies, each one with its own personality, its own way of showing beauty.”

Tranquil listened with an open heart, allowing her words to flow without interruption. He could sense how much it cost her to speak, to bring her mother into the present, even in memory.

“She sounds like she was a wonderful pony,” he replied, his tone warm and sincere. “It must have been beautiful, that garden she kept.”

A faint smile ghosted across Rose’s face, fragile and brief, like a petal caught in the wind. “It was,” she said, and there was a tremor in her voice. “She was always out there, every morning… She said it made her feel close to the earth, like she was part of something bigger. When she was out there with her roses, it was like…she was at peace.”

There was a silence then, weighted with her memories. Rose looked down, her hoof still resting lightly on the rose in the basket. “I wanted to take care of it after she…after she was gone. But I couldn’t. Every time I tried, it just reminded me of her. I…I couldn’t bear it.”

Tranquil felt a pang of empathy, a deep understanding of the pain in her words. He had met many ponies with grief as a constant companion, each carrying it in their own way. Some held it tightly, fearing it would slip away if they let it go. Others pushed it down, pretending it wasn’t there. But Rose’s grief was raw, a wound she hadn’t yet learned to tend.

“I understand,” he said gently. “Sometimes, memories feel like they’re too heavy to hold. But they don’t have to be. Sometimes…they can be like a garden themselves. Something that grows, that changes, that finds new ways to bloom.”

Rose looked up at him, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “A garden?” she repeated, as though the word held a secret she hadn’t yet uncovered.

Tranquil nodded, his gaze soft and kind. “A garden isn’t always just what we plant in the ground. It’s also the memories, the love, the lessons we hold onto. They don’t disappear just because we can’t see them. They live in us, quietly, waiting for the right time to bloom again.”

Rose was silent, absorbing his words. For the first time, she looked at him fully, her eyes meeting his. There was a question there, an unspoken hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a way to keep her mother’s memory without it hurting so much.

“What if I don’t know how to tend that kind of garden?” she asked, her voice small, vulnerable.

Tranquil offered her a gentle smile. “You don’t have to know all at once. Gardens take time, and so do we. Maybe…we could start with something small. A single flower, a single memory. Something you can hold close, without it overwhelming you.”

Rose looked at the rose in the basket, her hoof still resting on its petals. She nodded slowly, a tiny spark of hope kindling in her gaze. “Maybe,” she said, her voice soft but steadier than before. “Maybe I can try.”

Fractured reflections.

The faint, comforting hum of activity in Suncrest’s common room surrounded Tranquil as he scanned the space. Patients were engaged in their routines—some reading, others quietly talking—but one figure caught his eye. Mirage was seated by the large window, her back straight and her posture tense, as though the slightest disturbance might shatter her carefully maintained composure.

Mirage was a striking mare with a pale lavender coat and a mane that shifted in hues of deep violet and rose pink. Yet, despite her elegant appearance, she seemed faded somehow, like a figure in an old photograph—beautiful, but lacking in depth. Her gaze was distant, fixed on some unknown point beyond the glass, her reflection ghostly against the clear pane.

Tranquil had seen her around the facility, always watching, listening, but rarely speaking. There was a delicateness to her presence, as though she were guarding a secret too fragile to share. He had heard bits and pieces of her story—that Mirage had been a socialite, a mare who adapted effortlessly to others’ expectations, slipping between roles and personas like a chameleon. Over time, however, she had become unmoored, unable to distinguish between the identities she created for others and the true self hidden beneath.

Taking a breath, Tranquil approached her gently, keeping his steps soft so as not to intrude on her quiet moment. “Would you mind if I joined you, Mirage?” he asked, his tone inviting yet unassuming.

Mirage blinked, her gaze shifting away from the window. For a brief moment, a shadow of wariness crossed her face, but then she offered a small, polite smile. “Of course, Tranquil. You’re… welcome to sit.”

He took a seat beside her, leaving a respectful distance. Silence stretched between them, gentle and unhurried, as they watched the clouds drifting lazily across the sky outside.

After a few minutes, Tranquil turned slightly to face her. “It’s peaceful out there, isn’t it?” he murmured. “Sometimes it’s nice to just… watch, let our minds wander.”

Mirage’s gaze softened, but her smile remained distant, almost automatic. “Yes. Peaceful,” she replied, her tone barely above a whisper. There was a slight tremor in her voice, a hint of something unsaid.

Tranquil sensed her hesitation, the invisible weight of her thoughts. Rather than press her, he chose a gentle, open approach. “If you feel like talking… I’m here. No expectations, just… a listening ear.”

Mirage’s smile faded, her gaze dropping to her hooves as though the words she wanted to speak were hiding somewhere within herself. “It’s strange,” she murmured finally. “I look out there, and I see… possibilities, lives I could have lived. I wonder who I would be if things had… been different.”

Tranquil nodded, his expression calm and encouraging. “It sounds like you’ve had a lot of different lives already,” he observed. “A lot of… different selves.”

A faint, bitter laugh escaped Mirage’s lips, a sound that was almost foreign coming from her. “Yes… that’s one way of putting it,” she said, her voice laced with a mixture of regret and exhaustion. “I’ve been everything for everyone—a dutiful daughter, a charming friend, a poised socialite. But somewhere along the way… I forgot who I was underneath it all. Now… I’m not sure there’s anything left.”

Tranquil let her words settle, understanding the profound emptiness that could come from a life spent molding oneself to others’ expectations. “That sounds incredibly painful,” he said gently. “To feel like you’re a reflection of others, rather than… yourself.”

Mirage’s eyes darted up to meet his, surprise mingling with a flicker of vulnerability. “Yes,” she whispered. “It’s like I’ve become a ghost in my own life. I don’t even know if… if there’s a real me anymore. Just… fragments of what everyone else wanted.”

Tranquil’s gaze softened, a gentle compassion filling his expression. “What if,” he began thoughtfully, “we tried to find the real you, bit by bit? You don’t have to have all the answers right now. Sometimes, it’s about exploring what feels right, what resonates. Little by little, those fragments might start forming a whole.”

Mirage’s eyes widened slightly, a glimmer of hope mingling with the doubt in her gaze. “I… I wouldn’t know where to start,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I’ve spent so long… adapting, mirroring. I wouldn’t even know what feels right anymore.”

Tranquil took a breath, carefully crafting his response. “Maybe we could start small. Simple questions, things you don’t have to answer for anyone but yourself. What do you enjoy? What brings you peace or joy? It doesn’t have to be grand… just little things.”

Mirage hesitated, her gaze drifting once again to the window. She seemed to ponder his words, the idea of discovering herself both daunting and intriguing. “I… I used to love painting,” she said slowly, as though the memory were something fragile and delicate. “Not for others. Just… for myself. I used to lose myself in colors, shapes… like they were a language I didn’t have to speak.”

Tranquil smiled, sensing the quiet spark hidden in her admission. “Painting sounds like a beautiful place to start,” he encouraged. “Maybe you could try it again. Not for anyone else, just… as a way to reconnect with yourself.”

Mirage’s gaze softened, the edges of her reflection in the glass blurring as she considered his suggestion. “Maybe,” she murmured, almost as though she didn’t dare to believe in the possibility. “Maybe that’s something I could try.”

They sat in silence once more, but this time it felt different—charged with the faint, fragile beginnings of self-discovery. Mirage seemed lighter somehow, as though the simple idea of painting had given her a small anchor, a point from which to start piecing herself together.

Tranquil leaned back, content to let the moment linger. He knew that the path to rediscovering herself would be long and uncertain, but he also sensed that Mirage had taken her first step. In his quiet, steady way, he would be there for her, guiding her gently as she began to reclaim the parts of herself she had lost.

Take your time

The sterile walls of the Whispering Pines Mental Health Care Facility were a far cry from the comfort of the open skies that Stormcloud had once known. The soft hum of fluorescent lights echoed through the hallways, and the faint scent of antiseptic lingered in the air—a constant reminder that this place was far from home.

For months, Stormcloud had been a resident at Whispering Pines, a place where ponies like her could find care, safety, and—if they were lucky—healing. Yet every corner seemed to mock her. The white walls felt suffocating, the walls of the facility closing in on her as if she were trapped in a box. She had never imagined that a place meant to heal would make her feel more broken.

But here she was, feeling lost, like a shadow of herself. She’d been struggling for so long, her thoughts too jumbled to make sense of. The isolation, the long days filled with therapy sessions, and the quiet conversations with doctors who didn’t seem to understand her—none of it helped. In fact, it only made her feel more invisible, more detached from the world outside.

Today was no different. The morning sun barely peeked through the thick clouds outside, and Stormcloud stared blankly at the window from her bed, her mind too foggy to focus on anything in particular. The constant hum of the air conditioning and the soft shuffle of hooves in the hallways were the only things that seemed to bring any sense of reality to her surroundings.

"Stormcloud," a familiar voice called from the doorway, drawing her attention away from the window.

Tranquil stood in the doorway, his calm presence a stark contrast to the sterile and often harsh environment of the facility. His light blue coat shimmered softly, a calming reminder that there was still warmth in the world outside. He wasn’t a doctor, but he had been coming to Whispering Pines for weeks now, offering comfort and support to the ponies who needed it most.

Stormcloud didn’t respond at first, simply staring at him with tired eyes. She had been here so long that seeing the same ponies, the same faces, had begun to blur together. But Tranquil—he was different. He didn’t treat her like she was broken, or like her struggles were just a puzzle to be fixed.

He understood.

"Can I sit with you for a moment?" Tranquil asked, his voice gentle, not pushing, just offering a presence.

Stormcloud didn’t say anything, but after a moment, she nodded. He slowly walked in and sat at the edge of her bed, not too close but close enough to offer his warmth.

The silence stretched between them. For a long time, neither spoke. Stormcloud’s gaze remained focused on the window, her mind far away from the present. She wasn’t sure where her thoughts were, or if they were even her thoughts anymore. There was a constant battle inside her head that she couldn’t quiet. The voices, the doubts, the overwhelming sense of dread that had settled in her heart—these were the things that filled her mind.

"I’ve been thinking a lot about how hard it is here," Tranquil said quietly, breaking the silence. "This place can be overwhelming. It’s easy to feel like you’re losing yourself."

Stormcloud’s ears twitched slightly, but she didn’t look at him. She wasn’t ready to speak yet. Not yet.

"It’s okay if you don’t feel like talking," Tranquil continued, his voice soft and patient. "Sometimes, words don’t come easily when everything feels too heavy."

A long sigh escaped Stormcloud, and she finally spoke. "I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere. I’m broken." Her voice was thick with self-doubt, a whisper that barely escaped her lips.

Tranquil’s expression softened. He understood the weight of those words more than she realized. "You’re not broken, Stormcloud. You’re just... struggling right now. You’re not your struggles. Just because you’re in pain doesn’t mean you’re any less than the pony you’ve always been."

Stormcloud let out a bitter laugh. "How can you say that? How can you look at me and say that when all I do is sit here and waste time? Everypony else has a life outside of here. They have friends, families... they’re moving on, living their lives. And I’m stuck in here."

"You’re not stuck," Tranquil said firmly, his voice steady. "You’re just taking the time you need to heal. Healing doesn’t always look like it does in the stories. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s full of days when you don’t want to get out of bed, when the thought of facing another day feels impossible."

Stormcloud looked at him now, her eyes searching his face for any sign of false hope, any hint that he was just telling her what she wanted to hear. But there was none. His expression was sincere, filled with compassion and understanding.

"But it’s not about having all the answers," Tranquil continued. "Sometimes, it’s about taking it one breath at a time, one step at a time. It’s about allowing yourself to not be okay, without shame, and knowing that there is no rush to be healed."

"But I don’t know how to keep going," Stormcloud whispered. "Everything inside me feels... shattered. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore."

Tranquil nodded slowly, understanding the depth of her pain. "It’s hard to know what’s real when your mind is clouded by doubt, by fear, by pain. And it’s even harder when you feel like you’re being told to ‘fix it’ or ‘get better.’ But Stormcloud, healing doesn’t happen on a timeline. It doesn’t happen just because others expect it to."

Stormcloud’s eyes welled with tears. "I don’t know if I can ever be the pony I was. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel... normal again."

"You don’t have to be the same pony you were," Tranquil said gently, "because the pony you are becoming, in this moment, is enough. Healing doesn’t mean going back to who you were—it means accepting who you are now and allowing yourself the grace to grow in your own time."

There was a long pause as Stormcloud processed his words. She stared at him, trying to make sense of the warmth in his voice, the kindness that radiated from him without expectation. Slowly, a tear slid down her cheek, not in sorrow, but in recognition of the truth he had spoken.

"I’m scared," she said quietly, her voice barely audible. "Scared that I’ll never get better. Scared that this is who I’ll be forever."

"It’s okay to be scared," Tranquil replied. "But being scared doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human. And you’re allowed to be scared. Just don’t let that fear keep you from moving forward. Don’t let it convince you that you have no worth. You matter, Stormcloud. And you are worthy of care, even on the days when you don’t feel like it."

She sniffled, her body trembling slightly. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to fix it."

"You don’t have to fix it," Tranquil said. "You just need to take things one day at a time. It’s okay to not have all the answers. It’s okay to not be okay. And I’m here, every step of the way, for however long it takes."

Stormcloud took a shaky breath, her heart feeling a little lighter than before. It wasn’t a miracle cure, and it wasn’t the end of her struggles. But it was a beginning—a moment of peace in a world that had felt so chaotic for so long.

Tranquil smiled softly at her, the warmth in his eyes unmistakable. "You’re not alone, Stormcloud. Not now, not ever."

And with that, they sat together in the quiet room, the stillness between them no longer uncomfortable, but comforting. For the first time in a long while, Stormcloud allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could find her way through the storm. Not in an instant, but one step at a time.

Weight

Got it! Here’s the revised chapter, focusing on Coral’s journey with Tranquil's support, without mentioning how long he’s been in the facility:

Coral Shine sat in front of the bathroom mirror, her eyes glazed, staring at her own reflection. Her mind was clouded with confusion and self-doubt. The soft lighting in the room did little to mask the deep shadows under her eyes, remnants of sleepless nights and restless thoughts. She had always been a pony who brought light to others, whose bright smile could brighten even the darkest of rooms. But lately, the light inside her had begun to fade, and the mirror seemed to reflect nothing but emptiness.

Where had that pony gone? The one who laughed freely and cared for everypony around her? Now, all she could see was a stranger—a pony lost in a storm she couldn’t escape.

The pressure weighed heavily on her chest, an almost suffocating reminder of the struggles she faced, but no one seemed to notice. They couldn’t understand. She didn’t know how to explain it. How could she tell them she no longer recognized herself? How could she let them see her the way she felt—shattered, broken, and lost?

As Coral left the bathroom, she noticed Tranquil sitting in the hallway, a quiet presence as always. He was there, but not intrusively so. He didn’t ask her to talk, nor did he offer unsolicited advice. He was simply there—an anchor when everything else felt like it was slipping away. His calmness was something she didn’t fully understand, but it was something she had begun to rely on, even if just a little.

Coral hesitated, unsure of what to do or how to feel. She couldn’t put her thoughts into words, and even if she could, what would she say? How could she express the overwhelming heaviness she felt, the constant battle that raged inside her?

Tranquil, without a word, looked up at her and offered a soft, reassuring smile—a silent invitation for her to sit. She took a deep breath, then moved toward him, sitting down beside him on the bench in the quiet hallway.

He said nothing at first, and for a long time, neither of them spoke. It was the kind of silence that felt heavy yet somehow comforting, like the weight of the world didn’t have to be carried alone in that moment.

Finally, it was Coral who broke the silence. Her voice was small, fragile. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I used to be the one who helped everypony. I was always there for them, always had the right words to say. But now... I feel like I’ve lost myself.”

Tranquil didn’t try to fix her or rush to offer solutions. He just sat with her, his presence steady and warm. After a moment, he spoke, his voice calm and measured. “It’s okay to feel lost, Coral. Sometimes, we all do. But feeling lost doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re in a place where you don’t have all the answers yet. And that’s okay.”

She glanced at him, the words sinking in slowly, almost like she had never heard them before. She wasn’t used to hearing things like that—things that didn’t tell her to pull herself together or snap out of it. Just words that acknowledged what she was going through, without judgment or a rush to make everything better.

Coral looked down at her hooves, the weight of her emotions pressing against her chest. “But I don’t even know where to begin. I used to be able to help others, but now I feel... empty. I don’t know how to help myself, let alone help anypony else.”

Tranquil nodded, not with pity, but with understanding. “You don’t have to fix everything all at once. Healing doesn’t happen in a single moment, and it doesn’t look the same for everyone. Sometimes, it’s just about taking small steps, even if you can’t see the path ahead. And that’s okay. You don’t need to have all the answers right now. Just one step at a time.”

His words were a gentle reminder that healing didn’t require perfection. It wasn’t about snapping back into who she once was, but learning how to move forward, even when the future felt unclear.

Over the next few days, Tranquil continued to offer his quiet support. He didn’t push Coral to talk, didn’t demand answers or explanations. Instead, he simply made himself available—a calming presence when the storms in her mind raged. Sometimes, they would sit together in silence, and other times, Coral would find herself talking more than she expected, sharing bits and pieces of the heaviness that she had carried alone for so long.

But Tranquil never pressured her. He knew that there were no easy fixes for what she was going through, no quick solutions. It was a journey that would take time—maybe even a lifetime—and he didn’t rush her through it.

One afternoon, Coral found herself sitting alone in the courtyard, staring at the bright blue sky above her. The warmth of the sun on her coat felt like a small comfort, a brief reminder that the world was still beautiful, even when she couldn’t quite see it herself.

She had been thinking a lot about Tranquil’s words—about healing being a slow process, about how it was okay not to have all the answers. It felt strange, even a little foreign, to accept that it was okay to be where she was. But maybe, for the first time in a long while, she was starting to believe it.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she felt a soft presence beside her. Without even having to look, she knew it was Tranquil. He didn’t speak immediately, as usual, but she could feel his steady presence beside her, like a silent reassurance that she wasn’t truly alone.

“Is it okay to be okay with not being okay?” she asked quietly, almost to herself.

Tranquil’s answer came after a long pause, his voice calm and warm. “It’s more than okay. It’s the first step to healing. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You’re not alone in this.”

Coral didn’t reply at first. She simply closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. For the first time in a long while, she felt the smallest spark of hope flicker inside her. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As the days passed, Coral began to make small steps toward recovery. She didn’t expect to be “fixed” overnight. She didn’t expect to wake up one morning and suddenly feel whole again. But with each passing day, she felt a little lighter. She started to talk more with the others, even if it was just a simple greeting or a small conversation. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

And whenever she felt like she was drowning, like the weight was too much to bear, she knew she could always turn to Tranquil. Not for solutions, but for quiet support. A reminder that even in the darkest times, she didn’t have to go through it alone.

In the end, that was enough. It wasn’t about fixing everything at once. It was about learning to take each moment as it came, even when it felt too heavy to carry. And slowly, she was starting to learn that, in time, the light inside her would return—not because she forced it, but because she allowed herself to heal at her own pace.

And that was enough for now.

Panic

The walls of Suncrest Mental Health Facility were painted in a soft, calming shade of blue, meant to soothe the anxieties of those who walked its halls. However, for some, the sight of those walls felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. Among the many patients who came and went, one pony stood out. Her name was Solace—a delicate, pale blue unicorn with a soft, almost ethereal presence. Her mane was a blend of gentle lavender and silvery-white streaks, cascading in smooth waves down her back. Yet, despite her beauty, Solace carried an invisible burden that no amount of outward appearance could conceal.

Solace had been struggling with anxiety and panic disorder for as long as she could remember. To the outside world, she appeared calm and composed, even graceful in the way she carried herself. However, inside, her mind was in constant turmoil. Each day felt like a tightrope walk, where every sound, every interaction, every moment could send her spiraling into a wave of fear and distress.

Her anxiety wasn’t like the common worries others faced—those simple, passing moments of nervousness before a test or a big event. For Solace, anxiety had become an ever-present companion, lurking in the background of her thoughts, ready to strike at any given moment. It gripped her chest with an unrelenting pressure, leaving her feeling breathless and overwhelmed. Sometimes, the very idea of stepping outside her room, facing the bustling common area, or even speaking to another pony would send her heart into a frantic, erratic rhythm. She had tried to mask it, to hide it from others, but the isolation it caused was suffocating. And yet, it was her daily reality.

It was this battle that had brought her to Suncrest. Her family, well-meaning but overwhelmed, had convinced her to seek help when her anxiety became too much to manage alone. Solace had always been a private pony, preferring to suffer in silence rather than burden others with the weight of her emotions. But after years of silent torment, she was beginning to crack. She knew it was time to face her demons.

One day, as the sun cast soft rays through the large windows of the facility, Solace found herself sitting alone in the common room, her hooves folded in her lap. She stared blankly at the floor, her heart beating in a slow, methodical rhythm—until it wasn’t.

A sudden sharp intake of breath caught her attention. A familiar face appeared beside her—Tranquil. He was a patient too, but in his presence, she always felt an odd sense of peace. Not because he spoke words of comfort, but because he seemed to understand her, without needing explanations.

“Solace,” Tranquil greeted, his voice calm but full of understanding. “How are you today?”

Solace forced a smile, a strained one. “I’m fine,” she replied, though her words were hollow. It was a lie she told herself as much as him.

Tranquil took a seat next to her, his eyes soft as he watched her. He didn’t push her to talk. Instead, he let the silence sit between them, offering her the space to share whatever she needed when she was ready. That was one of the things Solace had come to appreciate about him—he never rushed her, never demanded that she speak. He simply allowed her to be.

The room was filled with the distant chatter of other patients, but for Solace, it felt as though the noise was too much. The sound of voices, footsteps, the faint hum of the television—it all blended together into a suffocating cacophony. She shifted uncomfortably, her hooves beginning to fidget in her lap. Her breath quickened, and her chest tightened.

Tranquil’s eyes were trained on her, but his gaze was not invasive. It was patient, waiting.

“Solace,” he said softly, his tone steady, “it’s okay to not be okay. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

The words were simple, but they hit Solace like a wave crashing against the shore. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. It was hard for her to admit to herself that she wasn’t okay. She had spent so much of her life hiding her anxiety, pretending she was fine, because it felt easier than facing it. But in the stillness of that moment, Tranquil’s kindness felt like the first breath of fresh air she had taken in years.

“I don’t know how to control it,” Solace whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s always there. In the back of my mind, just waiting to consume me. I can’t even walk through the halls without feeling like I’m going to collapse. My heart races, my hooves shake... Sometimes, I feel like I’m suffocating.”

Her words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. The weight of her anxiety, which she had tried to keep hidden for so long, now poured out in a flood of vulnerability. Solace was terrified of being judged, of others seeing her as weak. But in the presence of Tranquil’s quiet understanding, she felt a flicker of hope.

Tranquil didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let her speak, letting her unload the burden she had been carrying. When she finished, he turned toward her, his gaze gentle and unassuming.

“I understand,” he said simply. “I’ve been there. It’s not easy to live with something that feels like it’s controlling you. But it doesn’t define who you are.”

Solace shook her head, the tears threatening to spill over. “But it does,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “It controls me in every way. I can’t even leave my room some days. How am I supposed to live like this?”

Tranquil nodded, his expression compassionate. “It’s okay to take it one step at a time,” he replied. “You don’t have to fix everything all at once. It’s about learning how to live with it, even if it feels overwhelming. Start small. Take one moment, one breath, one step. And know that you’re not alone.”

Solace sat in silence for a moment, considering his words. The idea of taking things one step at a time seemed so simple, yet so daunting. But there was something comforting in Tranquil’s presence, something that told her it might be possible. She wasn’t alone in this fight.

“I’ll try,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “I’ll try to take it one step at a time.”

For the first time in a long while, Solace felt a small sense of relief. The weight of her anxiety hadn’t vanished, but it felt less suffocating. She wasn’t alone. She had someone who understood, someone who wasn’t asking her to be perfect, but simply to try.

As the day wore on, Solace still felt the familiar tug of anxiety in the back of her mind, but it no longer felt like an unshakable force. With Tranquil’s help, she had taken the first step toward accepting her condition—not as a weakness, but as a part of who she was. And that was enough for now.

In the quiet of Suncrest, surrounded by other ponies struggling with their own demons, Solace began to understand that healing wasn’t a destination. It was a journey. And she was no longer walking it alone.

Don't gotta be perfect

Astra Nova’s hooves clicked softly against the floor as she walked through the halls of Suncrest, the mental health facility that had become her second home. The air felt colder here than it did in her family's lavish estate, but she had learned to grow accustomed to it. The light of the stars, visible through the windows at night, sometimes felt like a reminder of everything she was supposed to be—a perfect, shining star. But that light never warmed her. It only reminded her that she could never live up to the expectations.

She passed a mirror on the wall, pausing to look at her reflection. Her midnight-blue coat gleamed faintly under the artificial lights, her silver eyes shimmering like the night sky. Her cutie mark—a single radiant star—was perfectly in place, just as it always had been. But as she stood there, staring at her reflection, she didn’t see the graceful pony she wanted the world to see. She saw someone who was losing their grip, someone who could never live up to the perfect image her family had created for her.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Astra had been destined for greatness ever since she was a filly. Her talent had been apparent from the start, and her family’s expectations had been high—too high, perhaps. But she had never been able to stop. They wanted her to succeed, to be flawless, to shine brighter than anyone else, and she wanted that too. Or at least, she used to. Now, it felt like the weight of it all was slowly crushing her.

She turned away from the mirror and made her way to the garden, a peaceful space that had always calmed her when the storm of her thoughts grew too overwhelming. The garden at Suncrest was a serene place, with lush green plants and trees that grew in perfect harmony. The air was cool, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the breeze. But Astra didn’t feel calm. She never truly felt calm anymore.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts, making her jump slightly. “Astra.”

She turned to see Tranquil, another patient at the facility. He was seated on a bench nearby, his presence quiet and unassuming. His silver coat shone faintly in the moonlight, his deep blue eyes reflecting a calmness that she couldn’t seem to grasp no matter how hard she tried. He was always at peace, always calm, and it both irritated and fascinated her.

“Are you okay?” Tranquil asked, his tone gentle but probing.

Astra hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. She wasn’t okay. She hadn’t been okay for a long time, but she didn’t know how to explain that. “I... I’m fine,” she replied stiffly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just... thinking.”

Tranquil didn’t press her further. Instead, he patted the seat beside him, inviting her to sit. “You don’t have to pretend here. You know that.”

Astra felt a flicker of irritation. Why couldn’t he just let her hide like everyone else did? Why did he insist on peeling back the layers, exposing everything she wanted to keep hidden? But there was something about his calm demeanor that kept her from walking away. She took a hesitant step toward the bench and sat beside him, still avoiding his gaze.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Tranquil,” Astra said quietly, her voice shaky. “I’m trying so hard. Every day I try to be perfect, to meet their expectations, to be the perfect daughter, the perfect... everything. But it’s never enough. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

She took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t stop. I can’t stop trying. If I do, then I’ll fail. I’ll be nothing.”

Tranquil didn’t speak right away. He just sat there, listening to her, his presence a quiet comfort in the midst of her turmoil. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice calm but firm.

“Perfection is a lie, Astra. It doesn’t exist.”

Astra’s heart clenched. “But if I’m not perfect, what am I? What if I’m just... ordinary? What if I’m not enough?”

“You’re more than enough,” Tranquil replied softly. “You’re enough just as you are. You don’t need to be perfect to be worthy of love, or respect, or happiness. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

Astra shook her head, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. “But I’ve been told my whole life that perfection is everything. That’s how I’ll succeed. That’s how I’ll be loved.”

“That’s not love, Astra,” Tranquil said gently. “That’s control. You don’t need to be perfect to be loved. You’re worthy of love because you exist, because you’re you.”

Astra’s eyes stung with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She couldn’t let him see how broken she felt. How the idea of failing—of not being perfect—terrified her more than anything else in the world.

“I’m scared,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared that if I stop trying so hard, I’ll lose everything. That I’ll be nothing.”

Tranquil turned toward her, his expression full of understanding. “I know that fear. But you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here. We’re all here, and we’ll help you through it.”

Astra looked at him, her silver eyes searching his calm gaze. There was something about his sincerity that made her feel safe, something that made her believe, for the first time in a long while, that maybe she didn’t have to be perfect to be loved.

“Why do you care so much?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Tranquil smiled softly. “Because you matter. Because you deserve peace. And because perfection doesn’t define you. It never will.”

Astra let the silence stretch between them, the weight of his words sinking in. The idea of letting go, of embracing imperfection, was terrifying. But Tranquil’s gentle presence, his quiet belief in her, made it seem possible—maybe not right away, but someday.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Astra took a deep breath and allowed herself to relax, just a little. Maybe she didn’t have to be perfect. Maybe she could just be. And maybe that would be enough.

Fragile wings

The air in the room was thick with tension. Featherwing sat at the edge of the bed, her wings fluttering anxiously as she stared at the dimly lit walls of the facility. Her feathers, once pristine and smooth, now looked ragged and worn, as though they bore the weight of more than just the passage of time. Her chest heaved with every shallow breath, each one a reminder of how heavy the air felt around her. The silence pressed down on her like an invisible force, pushing her deeper into herself, into the place where the storm raged the loudest.

Featherwing had always prided herself on her grace and composure. She was a Pegasus, a creature of the skies, her wings a symbol of freedom and elegance. But now, her wings felt like a prison—too large, too cumbersome, and too fragile. She had once flown without fear, gliding above the world with nothing but the wind beneath her. But now, the simple thought of soaring through the open skies sent a chill of panic racing through her veins.

A quiet knock on the door pulled Featherwing from her thoughts. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. She had heard his soft, measured footsteps many times before. Tranquil. The one pony who had never pushed her, never judged her, even when she couldn’t find the words to explain the depths of the darkness she was drowning in.

The door creaked open slowly, and Tranquil stepped inside. His expression was gentle, but there was a subtle urgency behind his calm demeanor. Featherwing didn’t speak immediately, afraid that if she did, she would break. She couldn’t let that happen. Not again.

Tranquil didn’t say anything at first either. Instead, he simply sat beside her, a quiet presence in the room that felt oddly comforting, like a lighthouse in a storm. He knew her struggle, had seen it before in countless others. The walls she had built around herself, the way she tried to hide her vulnerability, the fear that consumed her when she couldn’t maintain the perfection she so desperately craved.

Featherwing clenched her hooves, feeling the soft tremor in her legs. She could feel the weight of her emotions pressing against her chest, threatening to choke her. The fear was always there, always just beneath the surface, like a shadow that never quite left her side. It had started out small, a feeling of unease, an occasional flutter of panic in her chest. But over time, it had grown, becoming a constant companion, a presence that clung to her even when she tried to push it away.

“I can’t do it, Tranquil,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I can’t face it. The sky, the open air… It feels like it’s closing in on me.”

Tranquil nodded quietly, his eyes softening with understanding. He didn’t need to ask her what ‘it’ was. He had seen her struggle before, had witnessed the crippling fear that paralyzed her whenever she even thought about taking flight. She had been a fierce and confident flier once, but now, every time she took a step toward the sky, she was met with the overwhelming force of her panic, her anxiety.

“I know it feels like that, Featherwing,” Tranquil said softly, his voice like a warm breeze against her tension. “But you don’t have to face this alone. You don’t have to rush. You can take small steps, one at a time. Just breathe with me.”

Featherwing closed her eyes, her breath coming in shallow, quick gasps. She could feel the panic rising in her chest again, her heart beating too fast, too loud. It felt like everything around her was spinning, like she was losing control, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

“Every time I try to spread my wings, I feel like I’m going to fall,” she confessed, her voice trembling with emotion. “I feel like I’m not strong enough, like I’m broken, like the very thing I was meant to be isn’t enough anymore.”

Tranquil didn’t answer right away. He simply sat there, his calm presence anchoring her, allowing her to feel her emotions without judgment. He knew that for Featherwing, the act of flying wasn’t just a physical challenge—it was a mental one as well. Her fear wasn’t about the physical act of flight, but the deep-rooted belief that she wasn’t worthy of it, that she was too weak to succeed, that she would crash and burn before she even had the chance to soar.

“Featherwing,” Tranquil finally spoke, his voice steady, “you are not broken. You’re not weak. And you don’t have to fly right now. Right now, all you need to do is breathe. Just breathe with me.”

With a shaky breath, Featherwing followed his lead, inhaling deeply, holding it for a moment, and then slowly exhaling. The world around her felt like it was still spinning, but the simple act of breathing brought her a small sense of calm, a small thread of hope that maybe, just maybe, she could hold on.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she admitted, her voice raw with vulnerability. “I don’t know how to stop the fear from taking over.”

“Fear is powerful,” Tranquil acknowledged. “It can feel like it’s consuming you, like it’s all you are. But you are more than your fear. You don’t have to fight it all at once. You can start small, take one step at a time. Today, you just take the first step, and tomorrow, maybe you’ll take another.”

Featherwing’s wings twitched at his words. Her wings were still fragile, still vulnerable. She didn’t know if she could ever fly the way she used to. But for the first time in a long while, she began to think that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to not have all the answers. It was okay to be afraid. It was okay to need help.

“I’m scared,” Featherwing whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I’m scared that if I don’t fix this, I’ll never be able to fly again.”

“You will fly again,” Tranquil said, his voice firm but kind. “But you don’t have to do it today. And you don’t have to do it alone. You have time, Featherwing. It’s okay to take it slow.”

Featherwing sat in silence, her wings folding against her sides. The tension in her body eased, just a little, and the storm of fear that had once felt like it would swallow her whole became a little more bearable. She didn’t know what the future held. She didn’t know if she would ever be able to take flight the way she once had, but for the first time, she didn’t feel like she had to have all the answers right now. She didn’t have to fix everything in one moment.

With Tranquil’s gentle guidance, Featherwing began to realize that healing wasn’t about rushing through the pain, about forcing herself to get better overnight. It was about allowing herself to feel, to be vulnerable, and to take small, meaningful steps toward recovery.

The road ahead was long, and the fear would still be there. But for the first time in a long time, Featherwing began to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could overcome it. She could fly again—not right away, not in the way she used to—but one small step at a time, one breath at a time.

-

Fractured skin

The silence in the room was suffocating, thick with the weight of unspoken words. Nightshade sat on the edge of the bed, her hooves tightly clasped together, her eyes staring blankly at the floor. The world outside felt distant, like it was happening on another plane, far beyond her reach. Her wings, normally sleek and proud, drooped heavily at her sides. A dull ache echoed through her chest, a sensation that had settled into her bones long ago, but it was the one she carried the least—too heavy to acknowledge, too deep to touch.

She had been here for what felt like forever—days blending into weeks in this quiet, sterile space. A mental health facility, a place for ponies who had lost their way, who couldn’t quite find their place in the world anymore. A place for ponies like her. Nightshade wasn’t like the others, not truly. She wasn’t the kind of pony that would speak openly about her pain. She had learned that silence was easier. The world didn’t need to know how much she hurt, how hollow she felt. The pain inside her was too much to share, too much to explain.

But today was different. Today, she had come to the realization that she couldn’t keep pretending she was fine. She couldn’t keep pretending that everything was okay when all she wanted to do was rip out the pain from her chest, when the urge to do so was so strong that it consumed her, that it overwhelmed her thoughts like a storm tearing through the night.

She shifted uncomfortably on the bed, her wings brushing against the sheets. She reached down instinctively, a faint shiver of shame running through her as she touched the edges of her hooves, where faint scars marred the surface of her skin. The marks were old, barely noticeable now, but the memory of what they represented never faded.

Self-harm had always been her escape, a way to silence the storm in her mind, to momentarily feel in control of the chaos that raged inside. It wasn’t about the pain itself, not really. It was about the relief—the feeling of release, of being able to break free, if only for a moment, from the overwhelming despair.

A soft knock on the door broke her from her spiraling thoughts. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Tranquil. He had been her constant presence in the facility, a patient who somehow found the energy to offer his help to those around him. She couldn’t quite understand it—how he could still care, still help, when his own demons seemed to linger so close to the surface. He was always there for others, always offering support, and for some reason, that made her feel both grateful and ashamed.

The door creaked open, and Tranquil stepped in, his face calm but with an underlying concern that she could feel even before he spoke. He had become familiar with the weight that Nightshade carried. He knew the signs—the subtle tremors, the way she clung to silence as if it was the only thing keeping her grounded. And he had learned the hard way that sometimes silence was the loudest scream.

“Hey,” Tranquil greeted softly, his voice low and gentle. “Can I sit with you for a while?”

Nightshade didn’t respond immediately, but after a few moments, she nodded, her gaze still fixed on the floor. Tranquil sat beside her, not too close but close enough to offer comfort, giving her the space she needed. They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the soft rustle of the sheets beneath them.

“I’m sorry,” Nightshade muttered after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Tranquil replied. “You’re here because you need help. It’s okay to not have all the answers. It’s okay to not have words.”

Nightshade’s eyes flickered up to meet his, the raw vulnerability in her gaze making her feel exposed in a way she wasn’t ready for. She quickly looked away, but the damage had been done. The dam she had built around herself was beginning to crack, and for the first time in a long time, she felt the urge to speak, to let someone know just how much she was struggling.

“I—” She faltered, swallowing hard as her throat tightened. “I don’t know how to stop. It’s like this... this voice inside of me that tells me I’m not good enough, tells me I’m worthless, that the only way to make it go away is to... do something. To hurt myself.”

Tranquil didn’t say anything at first, but Nightshade could feel the weight of his gaze. It wasn’t pity, like so many others had given her. It was understanding. He didn’t judge her, didn’t try to fix her right away. He simply let her speak, let the words flow as she struggled to articulate the truth that had been buried deep inside her for so long.

“I don’t even know why I do it,” she continued, her voice trembling now. “It’s like I have to, like there’s no other way to make the pain stop. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and then... I do it, and for just a moment, everything goes quiet. But then it’s like the silence is worse, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Tranquil exhaled softly, shifting slightly to give her more space. “It’s not about fixing it all at once. You don’t need to solve everything right now. You’re taking the first step by talking about it, by letting me be here with you. You’re not alone in this.”

Nightshade shook her head, the frustration welling up inside her again. “But I am alone. Every time I close my eyes, every time I try to sleep, I’m alone. The scars are always there, and I don’t know how to make them go away.”

Tranquil reached out slowly, his hoof resting gently on her shoulder. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple act of connection. But for Nightshade, it felt like more. She felt the warmth of his presence seep into her, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. He wasn’t trying to erase the pain, to make it vanish. He was simply there, a steady presence that let her know that even in her darkest moments, she wasn’t truly alone.

“Scars don’t define you,” Tranquil said quietly. “They don’t make you who you are. They’re just marks, reminders of battles fought. But they don’t tell the whole story. You’re more than your pain. You’re more than your mistakes.”

Nightshade closed her eyes, her shoulders shaking as she let out a breath. For a long time, she had believed that the scars on her body told her story, that they marked her as broken, as unworthy of love or care. But in this moment, with Tranquil beside her, she could feel a small flicker of hope. Maybe she didn’t have to carry this burden alone. Maybe, just maybe, she could let go of the destructive coping mechanisms she had relied on for so long.

“I don’t know how to stop hurting,” Nightshade whispered, her voice full of sorrow. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Tranquil replied firmly, though his voice remained gentle. “It won’t be easy, but I’ll be here. You don’t have to do it by yourself.”

Nightshade didn’t say anything, but she could feel the weight in her chest lighten just a little. It wouldn’t be easy. She knew that. But for the first time in a long time, she could see a way forward, a way out of the darkness. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Mental scars

The room was stark, illuminated only by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The scent of antiseptic filled the air, sharp and sterile, like a reminder that this place wasn’t meant to offer comfort. It was just a holding space for broken things, a place where ponies with shattered minds could try to stitch themselves together again.

Crimson Fury sat in the corner, her back pressed against the cold wall. Her mane, once a fiery red, now hung in tangled clumps, dull and lifeless, like the remnants of a flame long extinguished. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, and distant. The pupils dilated unnaturally, flickering from one corner of the room to the next, as though she were seeing things no one else could.

She was not the same pony she once had been. Her once-proud frame, lean and powerful, was now hunched, her muscles taut and coiled as if constantly preparing to spring into action, to fight or flee. Her wings, once an impressive spread of crimson feathers, were now ragged and torn at the edges. They drooped weakly at her sides, barely able to lift themselves.

She wasn’t like the other ponies here, not really. She didn’t belong in the same group as them—those who had their problems, their traumas, their struggles. She didn’t belong in a place of recovery. For Crimson, this wasn’t recovery. It was containment.

Her mind was fractured, a million shards of memories scattered across time, too sharp to handle. What had started as whispers in her mind had grown into a cacophony of screams and shouts. The images, the sensations, were never far from her. She could still feel them, could still hear their voices, could still see their faces.

Crimson’s past was a horror she could never fully escape. Abandoned at a young age, left to fend for herself in a cruel and unforgiving world, she had been prey to those who saw her as nothing more than an object, a thing to be used. The abuse she had endured—physical, mental, sexual—had warped her sense of reality, twisted her thoughts until she no longer recognized the pony in the mirror. She was no longer innocent. She was no longer pure. She was a monster—a weapon, forged by the hands of those who saw her as nothing more than a tool for their own pleasure.

The violence had become a reflex. It was how she survived, how she held on to what little sanity she had left. She fought when she was cornered. She lashed out when someone got too close. She was angry, and that anger ran deep—too deep for anyone to understand, too deep for anyone to fix.

Her hooves were tightly clasped together, almost painfully so, her breathing erratic, as though she were trying to hold herself together, trying to keep the flood of violent thoughts from spilling out. Her mind was a battlefield, waging a war between the part of her that wanted to escape it all, and the part of her that couldn’t stand to feel weak anymore.

A soft knock broke her from her thoughts, but Crimson didn’t move. She didn’t acknowledge the presence of whoever stood at the door. She didn’t want to deal with anyone. She didn’t want to feel anything. She just wanted to be left alone in the dark, where the memories could drown her in silence.

But the door opened anyway. Slowly, cautiously, like the person on the other side knew better than to push too hard. Tranquil stepped into the room, his eyes meeting hers. He had been here for a while now, in the facility, drifting between the other patients. But Crimson had never spoken to him. Never acknowledged his existence. He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t force words onto her, didn’t try to pretend to understand her. He just let her be, and in return, she let him be too.

Tranquil wasn’t there to fix her. He wasn’t there to tell her how to get better. He wasn’t there to convince her that the past could be erased. He was simply there.

“Crimson,” he said gently, his voice calm, not asking for anything, not demanding her attention. “How are you feeling today?”

The question was too much. She flinched at the sound of his voice, the warmth of his words pressing against her like a vice. Her body tensed, her hooves digging into the floor as if she could burrow into the ground to escape him. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to feel. She didn’t want to let anyone inside.

But Tranquil wasn’t like the others. He didn’t press. He didn’t insist on answers. He sat across from her in silence, giving her the space to breathe, to think, to gather herself. It was the only thing that helped sometimes—silence. Her mind was already so loud, so full of rage and confusion, that it was hard to focus on anything else.

And yet, the silence didn’t last long. Crimson’s heart began to race, her thoughts swirling violently. Images flashed before her eyes—too vivid, too real. Faces of the ones who had hurt her. The cold, malicious voices that had haunted her for years. They were here. They were back. She could hear them in her ears, feel them crawl beneath her skin. She could feel their hands on her again, could smell their breath in her face.

“Stop it,” Crimson whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible. She shook her head, her wings flaring out involuntarily, the energy of a fight coursing through her like wildfire. “Stop it. Stop it, please.”

Her body was tense, coiled, ready to strike. She could feel the heat of anger building inside her, could feel it boiling over, threatening to spill out. But there was nothing to fight. No one was here to hurt her. There was only Tranquil, sitting quietly in front of her, watching, waiting.

He didn’t back away. He didn’t flinch.

“Crimson,” he said again, his voice steady. “You’re safe here. No one can hurt you anymore.”

She shook her head violently. The memories, the pain, the fear—it was all too much. The violence, the abuse, the endless torment—it was inside her, suffocating her. She didn’t know how to breathe. She didn’t know how to be free.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked. “I can’t do this. I can’t stop it. I can’t forget what they did to me. I can’t stop being... this. I’m broken. I’m nothing but a weapon. A monster.”

Her breathing became more erratic, each word tearing at her from the inside. The tears were threatening to come, but Crimson held them back. She had never cried for herself. She couldn’t afford to. But the dam was cracking, and she didn’t know how long she could hold it together.

“You’re not a monster,” Tranquil said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “You’re a pony who’s been through too much. But that doesn’t define you. You’re not what they made you. You’re not what you’ve been through.”

Her chest tightened as the words settled over her. A shudder wracked through her body. She didn’t know if she could believe him. She didn’t know if she could trust him. But for the first time in a long time, there was something different about Tranquil. It wasn’t pity or judgment. It was understanding. He didn’t see her as a problem to be fixed. He saw her as a pony who had suffered, and who deserved the space to heal, in her own time, in her own way.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Tranquil continued. “You don’t have to be anything you’re not. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Crimson didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know how to stop the chaos inside her, how to stop the violent thoughts that threatened to swallow her whole. But in that moment, for just a brief, fragile moment, she allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t beyond saving. Maybe there was still a way to put the pieces of herself back together.

Never easy

The sterile walls of the facility reflected the dim light, casting long shadows across the room. The air was thick with silence, save for the occasional hum of distant machinery. Eclipsa sat by the window, her eyes focused on nothing in particular. She didn’t seem to be watching the world outside; her gaze was hollow, lost in a storm of thoughts only she could understand.

Her coat was a soft gray, but her mane—once a rich, dark purple—was now tangled and unkempt. Eclipsa’s eyes, a pale shade of violet, were empty, yet behind them, there was a depth of sorrow, a burden too heavy for any one pony to carry alone.

Unlike many of the others in the facility, Eclipsa didn’t display signs of manic agitation or violence. She wasn’t outwardly destructive. No, her struggle was one of silence, a quiet kind of devastation that gnawed away at her from the inside. She didn’t speak often, and when she did, it was rarely about herself. She was always calm, almost too calm—an unsettling stillness that betrayed the weight of her emotions.

Her mind was trapped in a web of guilt. A feeling that she had failed, not just herself but others. She had always been the responsible one, the dependable one, the one everyone turned to for help. And yet, despite all the promises, all the expectations, she had failed them all.

The memories haunted her. The images of ponies she had cared for, ponies she had loved, who were no longer there. They were gone, and it was her fault.

She could still hear their voices. The whispers of the past.

“You promised, Eclipsa.”

“Why didn’t you protect us?”

They were the voices of the ponies who had entrusted her with their lives. They had believed in her, relied on her. They had trusted her to keep them safe. But in the end, she had been powerless.

The event was burned into her memory like a scar, a permanent mark on her soul. A decision made in desperation, one that had led to the loss of so many lives. Her heart twisted every time she thought of it. The lives she couldn’t save. The mistakes she had made.

She had tried to do everything right. She had tried to be strong. But in the face of a crisis, she faltered. And that faltering cost them everything.

Eclipsa had always been known for her calm demeanor, for her ability to stay composed even in the most chaotic of situations. But now, that calm was a mask, hiding the self-loathing and guilt that consumed her. It was easier to pretend to be fine, to keep her pain to herself, than to face the reality of her failure.

Her hooves clenched into fists at her sides, and for a moment, she felt the pressure in her chest tighten. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and a familiar tightness constricted her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising tide of emotions, but it was no use. It would never be enough to keep the memories at bay.

A knock at the door broke her from her thoughts. Eclipsa didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the sound. She didn’t want company. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to be left alone, to wallow in her guilt and regret in peace.

But the door opened anyway.

Standing in the doorway was Tranquil. Unlike her, he didn’t have a troubled past or overwhelming guilt hanging over him. He had his own issues, of course, but he seemed to understand. He always knew how to approach the others, always knew the right thing to say—or rather, the right thing not to say.

“Eclipsa,” he said gently, his tone warm yet neutral. “May I come in?”

She didn’t respond, not verbally. Instead, she gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible, but it was enough for him. Tranquil stepped inside, his presence calm and reassuring, a contrast to the storm raging inside her.

He didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he took a moment to assess her. He could see the signs of emotional strain—the way she held herself, rigid and tense, as though she were preparing to run or fight. She had retreated into herself, locking away whatever feelings were threatening to break free.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tranquil asked, not pressuring her, but offering the option. He wasn’t here to force anything, just to provide a safe space for her to open up if she chose to.

Eclipsa stared out the window again, her gaze distant, her expression unreadable. For a long time, there was nothing but silence. Tranquil didn’t mind it. He knew better than to fill the quiet with meaningless words. Sometimes, silence was the best thing they could offer each other.

After a long moment, Eclipsa spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t protect them.” Her words cracked, the weight of her guilt spilling over like a dam breaking. “They trusted me, and I... I couldn’t do anything. I promised them I’d protect them. I promised them they’d be safe.”

Her body trembled slightly, the release of emotion a small but significant shift. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Tranquil sat down across from her, giving her the space she needed to let her emotions unravel at their own pace. “You did everything you could,” he said quietly. “You’re not responsible for what happened. You can’t control everything. And you can’t blame yourself for things that were beyond your control.”

But Eclipsa didn’t believe that. The guilt was suffocating her. No matter how much Tranquil tried to reassure her, the feeling that she was somehow at fault—that she had failed them—was inescapable. It was like a shadow that followed her wherever she went.

“They’re gone, and I’m still here. I should’ve... I should’ve done more,” she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. “If I’d been stronger... If I’d made the right choice...”

Her words trailed off as the weight of those “what ifs” began to crash down on her once again. She had played the scenarios over in her mind a thousand times, each time imagining that she could have done something different, something better. But the truth was that it didn’t matter. The past was the past, and the ponies she had loved and lost were gone. There was nothing left for her to do but live with the consequences.

“You’re carrying a burden that isn’t yours to bear,” Tranquil said softly, his voice like a balm against her raw emotions. “It’s okay to feel guilt. But you don’t need to let it define you. You don’t have to punish yourself for something you couldn’t control.”

Eclipsa swallowed hard, her chest tightening as she tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. She wasn’t sure if she could believe him. She wasn’t sure if she was capable of letting go of the guilt that had consumed her for so long. But Tranquil was here. He wasn’t pushing her, wasn’t demanding anything from her. He was simply there, a steady presence in the storm.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling like this,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “I don’t know how to forgive myself.”

“It takes time,” Tranquil said gently. “It takes time to heal. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Eclipsa didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t know how to process the idea of healing, of letting go of her guilt. But for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to think that maybe, just maybe, she could find a way out of the darkness.

She didn’t know what the future held. She didn’t know if she’d ever fully forgive herself. But she knew that with Tranquil’s quiet support, she could start to take the first steps toward finding peace.

Silence

Moonstone Mist had always felt as if she were part of the background, a flickering shadow rather than a living pony. Her soft, silver-gray coat often seemed to blend with the foggy skies outside the window of Suncrest Mental Wellness Center, casting her as a specter rather than a patient. But this quiet existence wasn't a preference; it was a necessity she’d embraced, as her life had taught her that silence was the safest place to be.

From the outside, she seemed calm, poised even, yet internally, Moonstone felt shackled by an overwhelming dread and emptiness she didn’t fully understand. In the bustling common room, where ponies exchanged stories of heartbreak, healing, and hope, Moonstone’s silence remained unbroken. For Moonstone, silence had become a fortress and a prison, a place where she kept not just words but entire worlds buried, far away from the judgmental eyes of others.

One day, as she sat alone in the far corner of the common room, a stallion named Tranquil quietly joined her, his presence a gentle disruption in her well-curated solitude. Tranquil was known throughout the center for his quiet strength. He was a patient himself, struggling with his own shadows, yet his ability to reach out to others had become a source of comfort for many. He moved with a calm deliberation that suggested he was attuned to the needs of those around him without needing to speak.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked softly, leaving enough space between them to allow her to feel safe. His voice was neither intrusive nor pitying, just calm.

Moonstone nodded hesitantly. It was a small gesture, almost imperceptible, but Tranquil noticed, and with a gentle smile, he settled in. For days, he returned to that same spot, a quiet, reassuring presence beside her. He didn’t force conversation or look at her with the expectation of a response. He just sat, sharing the silence.

The Journal

After a few weeks of sharing these silent sessions, Tranquil handed her a small leather-bound journal. His hooves extended the book with a careful gentleness, and his voice remained steady and encouraging.

“Sometimes, it helps to write things down,” he offered, a suggestion rather than a command.

Moonstone looked down at the journal, her heart racing with a familiar fear. The act of opening up, even to herself, felt overwhelming. Words had been used against her in the past, a way for others to belittle her, to reinforce her belief that her voice held no value. But as she glanced at Tranquil’s soft expression, she saw only a genuine, nonjudgmental kindness. Tentatively, she accepted the journal.

That night, alone in her room, Moonstone opened the journal. The first blank page seemed to mirror the emptiness she felt inside, yet she found herself compelled to fill it. Taking a deep breath, she pressed her pencil to the page and wrote, “I don’t know where to begin.”

As she continued writing over the days, memories began to surface—memories she had tried to bury deep within herself. Her childhood unfolded in fragmented recollections of her parents' home, a place filled with rules and rigidity, where she was seen as an extension of their expectations rather than an individual. They had been ambitious ponies, driven and focused, their affection measured in achievements rather than warmth. Failure to meet their standards brought cold dismissals, subtle yet piercing criticisms that left lasting scars on her self-worth.

Her mother’s voice, a steady, calculating tone, echoed in her mind, instilling a belief that her thoughts and feelings were unworthy. “Why do you even bother speaking if you have nothing valuable to say?” her mother would often remark, dismissing Moonstone’s attempts at conversation as trivial. Over time, these criticisms silenced her voice, creating a void within her where her sense of self should have been.

Writing in the journal became a cathartic yet painful act, a way for her to confront these buried memories. In the pages, she described her mother’s sharp, disappointed glances, her father’s cold indifference, and the loneliness she had felt even in a house full of people. Tranquil, perceptive as ever, noticed the subtle changes in her demeanor. He never pried but often left small gestures of encouragement—a freshly sharpened pencil, a bookmarked page with inspirational quotes, small tokens that reminded her she was not alone.

As her writing continued, Moonstone found herself frequently reaching for the locket she wore around her neck. The tiny piece of jewelry was a lifeline, a tangible link to her past, yet it also held a painful memory she had never fully confronted. One day, after weeks of silent companionship, Tranquil noticed her clutching it tightly.

“Would you like to share what it means to you?” he asked, his tone gentle, his presence a grounding force.

She hesitated, feeling the weight of years of repression battling with a newfound desire to open up. After a long silence, she nodded and opened the locket. Inside was a tiny photograph—a much younger version of herself beside her mother. Her mother’s face held a smile, one of the few instances of warmth she could remember. It was a fleeting moment, a small shard of happiness that had become her most cherished memory.

Through tears, she explained to Tranquil how that moment had been one of the few times she had felt truly loved, before the expectations, the dismissals, and the silence had taken over. Tranquil listened, his eyes reflecting understanding and compassion, and in that moment, she felt a weight lift, as though the locket, once a symbol of pain, had become a bridge between her past and her present.

As the weeks passed, Moonstone continued her quiet healing journey, finding small ways to reclaim her voice. Tranquil encouraged her to join a small group therapy session, a suggestion that initially filled her with dread. The idea of speaking in front of others, even in a supportive environment, seemed insurmountable. But with Tranquil’s quiet encouragement, she eventually found the courage to attend.

In the group, she listened to others share their stories, their struggles, and their triumphs. She was amazed by the resilience and vulnerability displayed by ponies who had faced their own shadows. They spoke of loneliness, fear, loss, and shame, yet they also spoke of hope, growth, and healing. Slowly, she realized that she was not alone in her pain.

One day, after listening to a fellow patient share her journey through self-acceptance, Moonstone felt a sudden surge of courage. She took a deep breath, her heart racing, and whispered, “My name is Moonstone Mist, and I’m learning to find my voice.”

Her words were quiet, barely audible, yet the group’s response was warm and accepting. They offered her nods of encouragement, small smiles that reassured her. She had taken her first step toward breaking free from her silence, and it felt like a revelation.

With each passing week, Moonstone grew more comfortable in her own skin. She continued to write in her journal, pouring her fears, her memories, and her dreams onto the pages. The act of writing became a ritual, a way for her to process the tangled emotions that had haunted her for so long.

Tranquil, ever the supportive friend, encouraged her to try new activities as well—art therapy, meditation, even creative expression through painting. She discovered a talent for capturing emotions in abstract forms, using colors and shapes to represent feelings she couldn’t yet put into words. Her artwork became a visual diary, a testament to her journey, and a way to share her story without the constraints of language.

Her journey was far from linear; there were days when she felt as though she had made no progress, when her inner critic resurfaced, whispering doubts and fears. But with Tranquil by her side, she learned to navigate these setbacks with patience and self-compassion. She began to understand that healing wasn’t about erasing the past but rather learning to live alongside it, to accept her experiences as part of her story rather than defining her worth.

By the time she was ready to leave Suncrest, Moonstone Mist had transformed. She was no longer a silent shadow blending into the background. She was a pony with a voice, a story, and a newfound strength. Her voice was still soft, but it carried a depth and resilience born from her journey.

Tranquil walked her to the exit on her last day, offering her a gentle smile. “You’ve come a long way, Moonstone,” he said, his voice filled with pride.

She looked at him, her violet eyes shining with gratitude and a quiet confidence she had never felt before. “Thank you, Tranquil,” she replied, her voice steady and clear. “For everything.”

As she stepped out into the sunlight, she felt a sense of freedom and possibility. Her journey was far from over, but she was ready to face the world with an open heart, a voice that mattered, and the courage to be heard.

It's okay

Lilydew had always found solace in silence. She felt most at home among her flowers, far from prying eyes. Her pastel blue coat and pale pink mane allowed her to blend in almost effortlessly, and she had come to rely on that invisibility. From a young age, she had been sensitive, soft-spoken, and gentle—a temperament that, in her mind, the world had no space for. For years, her soft voice was rarely heard; she doubted if it deserved to be.

Now, entering Suncrest Mental Wellness Center, Lilydew looked at her surroundings with a nervous mix of fear and hope. She had finally admitted that she couldn’t heal alone, that she needed help and a new perspective on her worth. She had always seen therapy as something meant for “braver” ponies with loud voices or big problems—her quiet suffering had made her feel undeserving of support.

After her initial orientation, Lilydew felt like an outsider among the more visibly struggling patients around her. Some were vocal about their issues, while others seemed deep in their own worlds. It was in this initial confusion and hesitance that she met Tranquil, a fellow patient known around Suncrest for his calm, approachable demeanor and genuine desire to help others.

Their first conversation was brief and filled with pauses, but in Tranquil’s presence, Lilydew found a rare comfort. He didn’t pry, didn’t push her to share what she wasn’t ready to, but his quiet presence invited her to speak when she was ready. Over time, she began to look forward to these moments. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a shared space of quiet healing.

During her first session, Lilydew sat across from her therapist, Dr. Willow, struggling to express her feelings of worthlessness and inadequacy. She had grown up feeling “less than,” a shadow behind the more confident, outgoing ponies in her life. These feelings were reinforced by her own insecurities and memories of being dismissed or overlooked.

As she spoke, Dr. Willow encouraged her to trace the roots of her fears back to her childhood memories. She recounted moments of feeling invisible, of being told her quiet nature was a weakness rather than a strength. Each memory brought up waves of emotion, but Dr. Willow helped her process these feelings, making her realize they were valid, even if they had been suppressed for years.

In the days following her therapy session, Lilydew found herself reflecting deeply on what she had uncovered. Her new insights gave her a mixture of pain and relief, and the feelings often left her feeling emotionally drained. Tranquil noticed her subtle change, and without prying, offered her a comforting presence. Over tea in the common area, Tranquil shared some of his own struggles, and Lilydew felt a new sense of solidarity.

In Tranquil, she found a pony who didn’t see her gentleness as a flaw. Instead, he listened with genuine curiosity and empathy, subtly encouraging her to speak even when her voice wavered. His stories and open vulnerability showed her that struggle was not a sign of weakness; it was simply a part of being a complex, feeling pony.

At Suncrest, Lilydew was introduced to gardening therapy. As she planted her first seeds in a small patch of soil, she found herself reflecting on her journey. She chose flowers that resonated with different parts of her identity: lavender for her calming presence, daisies for her resilience, and ivy for her hidden strength. Each flower became a reminder of the qualities she had long overlooked in herself.

One afternoon, Tranquil joined her in the garden, and together, they planted new seedlings. As they worked in the soil, he encouraged her to see each flower as a reflection of herself—a growing, changing being who deserved to be seen and valued. The act of tending to the plants became a metaphor for her own healing journey, where she could nurture parts of herself she had ignored or undervalued.

Over the next several weeks, Lilydew’s therapy sessions grew more intense. She delved deeper into the roots of her self-doubt, discovering that her fear of judgment was more about her own insecurities than others’ perceptions. Dr. Willow introduced her to self-compassion exercises, encouraging her to challenge her inner critic with gentle affirmations.

In quiet moments, Lilydew practiced these affirmations, reminding herself of her worth and the beauty in her gentleness. She began to keep a journal where she recorded these affirmations, as well as the small victories she achieved each day. The practice helped her shift her mindset gradually, turning self-doubt into self-acceptance.

Lilydew’s small garden had blossomed into a vibrant oasis within Suncrest’s grounds, and she began to feel proud of her creation. At Tranquil’s suggestion, she decided to open the garden to other patients, offering it as a space for relaxation and reflection. The garden became a place of solace for many, and Lilydew found joy in sharing it.

Through her interactions with others in the garden, Lilydew began to understand her own value as a gentle, supportive presence. She offered quiet encouragement to ponies who felt overwhelmed, sharing the lessons she had learned on her journey. For the first time, she felt a sense of purpose and fulfillment in helping others find peace.

As Lilydew continued to grow in confidence, she faced a pivotal moment in her healing journey. She was invited to participate in a group therapy session where patients were encouraged to share their personal stories. The thought of speaking in front of others terrified her, and she feared judgment and rejection.

With Tranquil’s support, Lilydew gathered the courage to share her story. Her voice trembled, but as she spoke, she felt the weight of years of silence lifting. The other ponies listened with empathy and respect, and she realized that her fears had been rooted in her own mind. The acceptance she received reinforced her newfound belief in her own worth.

In her final therapy session, Lilydew reflected on her journey with Dr. Willow. She had come to Suncrest feeling unworthy, invisible, and fragile, but through her hard work and the support of her friends, she had learned to embrace her quiet strength. She realized that her gentleness was not a weakness; it was a unique gift that brought comfort to those around her.

Dr. Willow praised her resilience and encouraged her to carry these lessons forward. With newfound clarity, Lilydew promised herself to continue nurturing her self-worth, even in moments of doubt.

On her last day at Suncrest, Lilydew took one final walk through her garden. Each flower symbolized a piece of her journey, a reminder of the struggles she had overcome. She bid farewell to Tranquil, expressing her gratitude for his unwavering support, and he wished her well on the path ahead.

As she left Suncrest, Lilydew felt a sense of freedom and self-acceptance she had never known before. She knew her journey was far from over, but for the first time, she felt ready to face the world as her true, whole self.

Lilydew returned to her life outside Suncrest, carrying with her the lessons she had learned. She became a source of quiet support for others, often sharing her story with ponies who struggled with self-worth. Her garden continued to grow, serving as a living testament to her journey—a reminder that strength could be found even in the gentlest of souls.