a quiet end i cannot take

I want to die— not in screams, not in blood, but in a quiet room where no one waits for me. I think of suicide like a lullaby I hum alone, a final note to silence the noise in my head that never rests. But I'm scared. I'm afraid of the rope, afraid of the pills, afraid of the fall— not just the pain, but the fact that I might feel it and still not escape. I stand at the edge of my mind every night, toe hanging over thought, imagining how it ends— if it ends. I am not brave. Not brave enough to live fully, not brave enough to die. Caught somewhere between a breath and a breakdown. They say it gets better. But "better" feels like a foreign word, a place I've never been and can't afford the fare to reach. I want to end this. Not just the day, but the constant ache of waking. And still, I stay. Because I'm terrified that nothing waits for me beyond. Or worse— something does.