Am I too young?

I held the paper, tried to wait, three days given, still “too late.” Not my fight, not my blame, but somehow I’m the one named. Voices rise before I speak, words get lost, turn sharp and bleak. I try to explain, it comes out wrong, and suddenly I don’t belong. “I’m overwhelmed,” she says through tears, a sentence heavy with weeks of years. And I stand there, full and drained, trying to hold what can’t be contained. I go to my room, shut the door, not because I don’t care anymore— but because my chest is tired and tight, from trying to make everything right. I hear the guilt in every wall, like I’m the reason for it all. But I’m just a kid, still learning how to breathe through storms that break right now. I wish I had the perfect way to fix the words I couldn’t say. But all I have, in pieces, small— is that I tried my best at all.