Mudanças na linha 6258/10 Jd. São Francisco – Term. Sto. Amaro

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1. They said Riyadh would be safe.
   They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
   No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.

   —

   I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
   Because it’s not.

   The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
   There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
   They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.

   —

   It starts before thoughts finish.
   Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
   “Don’t speak.”
   “We’re watching.”

   And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
   Teachers look. I smile.
   I pretend it’s nothing.

   But I’m tired of pretending.

   —

   I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
   My heart raced for no reason.
   I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
   And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”

   Specialists.
   That’s how they bury you.

   Once they mark you unstable, they win.

   —

   I know it’s not natural.
   There are too many patterns.
   The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
   The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
   The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.

   I know what’s being done.
   I know who’s doing it.
   And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.

   —

   If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
   I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.

   —

   I can’t run.
   I can’t tell anyone.
   But I can still write.
   [email protected]

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