Obsession

That spark of obsession
is terrifying—
a small flicker
that never stays small.

I know what it looks like,
how it feels in my chest:
the moment something grabs me,
I don’t just enjoy it,
I disappear into it.

A new show,
a book,
a movie,
an idea—
a single scene, a single line,
and suddenly it breathes for me.

It takes over.

Hours blur at the edges.
Night forgets to end.
Morning arrives uninvited.

I stop sleeping.
I stop thinking about anything else.
The world grows quiet—
friends, responsibilities, hunger, time—
all fading behind the glow
of something imagined.

I start needing it,
like a pulse I can’t slow,
like a voice whispering
just one more,
just a little longer.

So I’ve learned
to avoid beginnings—
to fear the first step
more than the fall.

I don’t press play.
I don’t turn the first page.
I let recommendations rot,
let spines gather dust,
let curiosity ache unanswered.

I can’t afford to.

Because once I fall in,
I don’t come up for air.
I sink gladly,
lungs burning,
hands reaching deeper
into worlds that do not know my name.

I’m always
one story away
from losing control—
one narrative from unraveling,
one universe from replacing my own.

Fiction doesn’t work
with real life.
Its gravity is stronger.
So I snuff it,
pinch the flame between my fingers,
pretend the darkness is safer.

Yet the times I don’t—
the rare moments I surrender—
are intoxicating.

The rush of immersion,
the thrill of becoming elsewhere,
the dangerous sweetness
of forgetting myself.

And afterward,
when the silence returns,
I wonder—

what will be next?

Do I?

Do I sit in bed?
Do I sleep?
Do I scroll?

Lilli would know.
I should text her.

Wait —
she’s probably asleep.
People sleep at normal hours.

Damn.
Once again I’m up past bedtime.

I check the clock,
taking a break from the reckless driving video
like that’s somehow safer.

2 a.m.

Oops.
I broke my rule.

I break a lot of my rules.

The one where I finish assignments the day they’re due —
nope.

The one where I don’t talk to my dad
until he apologizes —
oops.

Will he ever apologize?
Or is this just the shape of us,
a cycle with no exit sign.

I wonder.
But whatever.
Something else to worry about.

What did I eat that made me feel like this?
My stomach hurts.
Now my hip hurts too.
My body keeping score of everything.

I should stretch.

Wait — no.
I need to sleep.

But I don’t want to.

There isn’t enough time
to scroll, read, laugh, relax, exist.
Sleep feels like wasted hours
I’ll beg for tomorrow.

So I should sleep.

But one more video.

One more chapter.

One more episode.

Wait —
I still need to respond to that text.

Marked

You fear.

Fear of fear itself.

Fear of shame.

You fear the name you were given–

for it may take you away.

Your name, which once showcased your heritage

now marks you,

marks you for cruelty.

Fear of violence.

Fear of the unknown.

You sit and rehearse the moment they come for you.

If they come for those who share your name,

your blood.

You fear.

Fear of fear itself

Fear of betrayal.

You fear betraying yourself

as your name begins to feel heavy,

unsafe.

Fear of your brother taken from you.

Fear of a name that will send violence towards you.

Fear that the curve of my nose,

the shade of my brother and sister’s skin,

will be enough to tear us apart.

You fear.

Fear the cries of the unjust—

how they echo

and go unanswered.

You fear the injustice of the world as it stands,

unbalanced,

unashamed.

Fear of the loss of an ID.

Fear of the loss of your location

to those who love you.

Fear that running will fail you,

that fighting will cost you more,

that neither will save you

from detainment

Passion Ignition

I feel free.
My passions have ignited—
a spark lit by choice, not demand.

The flash of a camera brings me peace.
Not performance. Not pressure.
Just presence.

Books filled with love
no longer confuse me,
no longer shame me.
Now, they bring joy,
and a longing I welcome.

The words I write
are for me.
Placed gently, deliberately—
not to explain, not to confront,
but to soothe
the tides within.

I am free from schedules.
From deadlines.
From opinions.
From worry.

I am free—
to be me again.

Absence. Stand-In.

I promise you to be beyond.
Beyond duty.
Beyond the role.
Beyond the title given.

I am my mother.
I am my sister.
I am my best friend.

I promise to be beyond the title.

Your mother is away.
Your father is away.
So you step in and become them.

You lose the ease of being a sister.
You lose the safety of being a daughter.
You become a stranger—
a stand-in mother,
a fixer.

You become a mother.

You kiss bruises that should not be yours to see.
You wipe tears someone else should be wiping.
You encourage when someone else should be speaking.

You hold yourself together
and then return to yourself
as a daughter—
split into two.
Both.

I tell myself, It’s okay. All is fine.
Your mother is away.

You are a daughter.
A daughter longing to be seen.
A daughter who wants to be more than a title,
more than a tax benefit.

You matter
to the stand-in mother you have become.

You wipe your tears
with your own fingers.
You create art
and the stand-in mother beams with pride.

I only know what I know
because I am a daughter
who learned how to mother herself.

You become a sister—
not the one you were meant to be,
but the one left to you.

The jokes,
the secrets,
the questions meant for someone else
circle back to you.

I only know the sister I am now,
not the one I was.

You become your own best friend.
Your confidant.
The one who knows your fears,
your love,
your anger.

You laugh with yourself.
You eat dinner alone but not quietly.
You go to the movies.
You trade gossip with your reflection.

You come from loneliness.
Your best friend does too.

I promise to be more than what was given to me.
I create.

Your best friend is away.

I promise you to be beyond.
To keep the truth without performing it.
To loosen the grip of titles when I can.

I will become someone
who is not always
a mother,
a daughter,
a sister,
a best friend.

I will not surrender
to the constraints
that keep me
from the beyond.

Isabella Hernandez

Isabella Hernandez is an undergraduate student in her senior year with multiple majors and minors, those being English on the Writing Track and Spanish, as well as her minors in General Business with a Management concentration and Marketing. When she has time to enjoy her interests, you can find her reading novels about yearning, diving into research that often turns into 20-page essays, and rewatching and analyzing favorite films and shows.

Her work “Do I?” is about being consumed by all these ideas, thoughts, to-dos, and not having the time to focus on them until late at night, when the thoughts are finally allowed to run as someone sits in silence and the dark. Where peace is felt externally, and the internal system of a person is being consumed, finally, from all the thoughts that weren’t able to be noticed until then.

Her work “Marked” captures a current horrific injustice happening in the United States, and can be projected onto many other injustices in the world. Where racial profiling is sending people into panic, sorrow, and anger. This concerns the idea of the identity you have been given, and the person you are today is a target.

Her work, “Passion Ignited,” surrounds the idea of finally being out of a constraint, whether it’s from the loss of someone or the depths of mental illness, and having the ability to become you again. Where your hobbies are yours now. There is no chore. No hindrance, or thought of how worthless it is. You can now choose to love something again and have them love you back.

The work, “Absence. Stand-in.” brings the imagery and emotions of being someone who carries more titles than the person they are. Where the tower they stand in holds them from being a person again. To beg those who know them and love them that they are fighting to come back, but the titles and events in their lives aren’t allowing it to happen immediately.