My Short Stories. The Quiet Room.

The Quiet Room

Jasmine sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the shelter’s quiet room, her hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea. Outside, the city buzzed with the noise of traffic and people rushing to places she no longer belonged to. She had been living in the cracks of the system for months now—job lost, apartment gone, relationships frayed. But it wasn’t just bad luck. Jasmine knew the darkness had started long before the bills piled up.

Her depression had crept in slowly, like fog. At first, it was just fatigue and forgetfulness. Then it became missed days at work, cold dinners left untouched, and entire weeks blurred into sleep. She tried to fight it alone, until everything fell apart.

It wasn’t until she walked into the welfare office that someone finally looked at her—not through her—and asked, “How are you really doing?” That small moment cracked something open. The caseworker listened, gently offered options, and connected her to mental health services she didn’t even know existed. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t easy. But it was something.

Now, in the quiet room, Jasmine took a deep breath. Her therapy sessions were helping. She’d started writing again—short poems, like she used to in college. She wasn’t “better” yet, but she was no longer invisible. And for the first time in a long time, she felt a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, she could rebuild not just a life, but herself.