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.