I'm a girl who doesn't exist

The narrator is an eighteen-year-old girl who feels invisible and nonexistent. She has tried to end her life but has been prevented from doing so by strange occurrences. She believes that the world and the universe actively deny her existence and rejects her attempts to interact with them. She wonders why she was born this way and feels that she is a defect. She tries to get attention by causing harm to others but realizes that her actions only lead to negative consequences. She eventually isolates herself and waits for the end of the universe, hoping for an afterlife where she can belong. However, even after the universe ends, she remains. She decides to write a post, hoping that someone will acknowledge her existence and prevent her from being forgotten. She expresses her fear that her last attempt to reach out will fail and pleads for someone to hear her. This is my last hope. This is my very last chance that someone, anyone, will see me. Please don't leave me alone. I thought after eight years I would have gotten used to it. I thought after twelve I would have gotten used to it. As the years passed, I told myself over and over that this would be the year where I stopped whining. But that day where I finally accepted my fate would never come. How could it? It's hard to come to terms with not existing. So, uh, hi. I'm an eighteen-year-old girl, and I have no name. Not that it would make much of a difference if I gave myself one. Nobody would ever say it. Not in reference to me, at least. The most I could do is stand around in some family's home and pretend like one of their names is my own. Pretending like I can be enveloped in the solace that they share with one another, the unbreakable bonds I can never form. Because for all intents and purposes, I don't exist. It took a while to come to terms with, not that I've accepted it as permanent just yet, but I understand my predicament now far more than I ever could. I stated it simply before, and I don't mean it with the slightest exaggeration. I don't exist. The world itself denies my existence at every turn. I can't properly communicate just how much I don't want to live like this. Though, even if I could, it's not like anyone could listen. But I don't have a way out. I tried to put an end to things, but the world didn't let me. The gun suddenly stopped responding to my fingers. The rope untied itself from the ceiling. I've never been sick, either. The world denies my existence, and so does every living thing in it. So why wouldn't the smallest, most insignificant organisms do so as well? Viruses aren't exempt from the cold indifference of the world. I've heard people say that before, that the world is cold and uncaring, indifferent to their suffering, and they couldn't be more wrong. The world doesn't deny them their life. It doesn't deny them their very existence. It lets them interact with everything, with everyone. If they knew just how good they had it, they would be worshipping the universe for all the attention and care it gave to them. I still wonder how I came to be in the first place. Of course, I wasn't born like any other person. I have no parents to speak of, and if I had been born normally, I doubt I would have ended up like this. The question then becomes, what am I? The first conclusion might be that I'm a ghost. And in a metaphorical sense, sure. But that's far from the truth, since the ghosts can't see me either. I enjoyed living like this for a while. I could take whatever I wanted, live any life I wished, and the universe would bend over backwards to accommodate whatever decision I made. But there was a caveat. I could live any life I wanted, but it would have to be a life of solitude. It didn't matter how much I took, how much I gave, how much I tried to manipulate the world to put me at its core. It would simply never allow that to happen. I decided to test it out one day. I walked alongside a man in a grocery store, and I figured that even if he didn't see me, I could get his attention somehow. So I stuck my leg out to trip him. And to my surprise, it worked. I was so ecstatic that I truly interacted with the world, until he got up, complaining about careless workers, and when I looked down to where I had tripped him, there were a dozen or so soup cans spilled across the floor. I ran to catch up with him and stuck my fist out in front of his face, but it was even more severe this time. The structure of the aisle shifted so that he was still walking in it, but I was several feet away. And nobody batted an eye. To them, it had always been like this. To them, there was zero oddity in this new world, because it wasn't new. The universe itself reshifted its structure to avoid acknowledging my impact. I began to suspect that it wasn't just cold indifference. It was hatred. Of course, it would never acknowledge me enough to tell me such a thing, but I believed it nonetheless. It seemed to be going out of its way to spite me personally, to make sure that I could never have a place in it. What was so wrong with me then? Was I born wrong? Was I a defect in its eyes? Was my very existence so horrific that it went out of its way to deny every aspect? I didn't want to keep living like this. I couldn't. But I couldn't put a stop to it, either. I wasn't allowed to. I made one last desperate attempt. I broke into someone's house—well, more so slipped in, but that's besides the point. I took a knife from his kitchen drawer and pulled off his blanket when he was sleeping. And I took his arm in my grasp, and I carved into it. Look. At. Me. He woke up, looked at his arm, and screamed. He slowly raised his head up, and for a second, his eyes met mine. He wasn't just looking in my direction. He was looking directly at me. And then the world flashed for a moment, and it was gone. The letters I had delicately carved in were a place with basic vertical slashes. I remembered him yelling at his wife, who was screaming in return, both of them having no idea how the cuts manifested. I remember looking out the window as he was wheeled away on a stretcher, the world worse off from my involvement. Maybe it did have a point, then. Maybe it was right to forget me. But unfortunately, I couldn't forget myself. I remained firmly locked into my own fate, unable to change a thing besides ruining the lives of those around me. I tried to do nice things, too. Grabbing stuff from stores and sending it down by the homeless. Cleaning up people's houses for them. But I noticed that those changes would either get erased entirely, or turned into something bad. The food would be moldy or poisoned. The cleaning would have caused structural damage to the house. So I stopped getting involved. Entirely. Unfortunately, this doesn't have a happy ending. I pulled away entirely, trying to not let my presence make the world a worse place. I figured that maybe if I isolated myself enough, the world would reward me for my understanding by letting me die. That was naive. It remained uncaring to my suffering, unable or unwilling to grant me the slightest relief. But I had long since stopped aging. So I simply sat around. I couldn't possibly describe how mind-numbingly boring the passing of time was. I sat around for thousands, millions, billions, an indescribable number of years passed me by. Each life I saw insignificant and every planet that died barely able to make me raise an eyebrow. I was almost disappointed that I didn't suffocate when the planet I had spent my early years on finally gave out. I had done my research, and I knew the end of the universe was approaching as well. And I eagerly awaited it. Every moment. Perhaps then there would be an afterlife that I could partake in. But the afterlife was only for people, though. And as far as the universe was concerned, I didn't count as a person. The only upside of this was that I could outlive the concept that had made my life agony. I was honestly looking forward to when everything gave out and I could finally close my eyes and rest. Yet, even when the universe breathed its last breath, I would remain. The universe is an odd thing. I've seen so much in my practically infinite lifetime, yet never had anyone to share it with. The universe went through a whole cycle. I don't really know how to explain it, but it seems like we're on a loop, destined to repeat every single event that happens. Maybe I'm destined to break that loop. So I had an idea. The whole world ignores my existence, but I don't think it can ignore this. Every key I push is real, whether or not it wants to believe me. I expected it to shift again to ignore my inputs, but it seems like it has forgotten about me. Guess my laying low did have a purpose. To be honest, I'm scared. I'm scared that this last idea of mine won't work, that it will cut me off before I can hit post. I don't want to live in a world where I don't exist anymore. Please, if you see this, talk to me. Acknowledge me. If this post actually gets out there, please don't let me be forgotten. Can you hear me?