DreamingDove Blog

"Get over it. He's just a dog," they say.

But they don't understand.

They don't understand

how I miss coming home

to a wagging tail,

a body so full of joy

that every day felt like a celebration

simply because I had returned.

They don't understand

the sound of little paws

padding across the floor,

the bark that echoed through the house,

the happy panting,

the gentle licks,

the comfort of a familiar head

resting against my hand.

They don't understand

how I'd walk to the bathroom

in the middle of the night

and hear him snoring downstairs—

a quiet reminder

that I was never truly alone.

They don't understand

that grief isn't always

about the big moments.

Sometimes it's the smallest things

that leave the biggest silence.

The muddy paw prints

I'd once wiped away

without a second thought.

The hopeful eyes

watching every bite of my dinner,

convinced this time

I'd share just a little.

And now I find myself wondering—

Who will have

the last bite of my meal?

Who will sit patiently at my feet,

tail gently thumping,

waiting for the piece

I always saved for you?

It was never

just the last bite.

It was our little ritual,

our unspoken promise,

our ordinary moment

that never felt ordinary

until it was gone.

They don't understand

how feeding you

was never just a chore.

It became a rhythm,

a routine,

a piece of my everyday life,

woven so tightly into my own

that I never noticed

until it was gone.

They don't understand

that walks are different now.

The path is the same,

but the world is quieter.

My hand still reaches

for a lead that isn't there.

I'm no longer

tripping over your toys.

The kitchen floor

stays clean.

No muddy paw prints

to wipe away.

The floors stay dry.

No trails of water

from your freshly filled bowl.

The house is tidy now.

But at what cost?

I'd give anything

to trip over one more toy.

To wipe away

one more muddy paw print.

To hear one more bark.

One more sigh.

One more snore

floating up the stairs

in the middle of the night.

To feel your soft fur

beneath my fingertips.

To watch you greet me

like I'd been gone forever,

even if it had only been five minutes.

Now there is only silence.

The kind of silence

that fills every room.

The kind of silence

that reminds me

of everything that's missing.

They say,

"He's just a dog."

But he wasn't.

He was my best friend.

My shadow.

My comfort.

My reason to smile

on the hardest days.

My home.

He wasn't just part of my life.

He was woven into

every ordinary moment,

every routine,

every quiet corner

of this house.

Now the routines remain...

but you don't.

And that's the hardest part.

So no...

He wasn't "just a dog."

He was my whole world.

And I will spend the rest of my life

missing the little things

that everyone else

was too busy to notice.

Because those little things...

Nothing feels different.

You don't know that, in less than twenty-four hours, someone is going to tell you he has three days left to live.

He's only two. Almost three.

When we brought him home, I'd only just lost my childhood dog the year before. I remember promising myself I wouldn't let myself get *too* attached this time. I didn't know how much more heartbreak my heart could survive. I told myself I'd keep a little piece of me protected.

But nobody ever tells you that love doesn't ask for permission.

Little by little, he became my best friend.

My shadow.

My comfort.

My reason to get out of bed.

I thought I had forever with him. I knew forever wasn't really forever. I knew a small dog might only live around twelve years. I'd already accepted that. I thought I'd be around twenty-eight before I'd have to imagine a life without him.

I'm eighteen now.

I won't always be eighteen.

But he'll always be two.

Not twelve.

Not even five.

Just two years and ten months.

Yesterday we were running along the beach together.

Today I'm sitting here wondering if I'm really about to lose the one soul that's been there for me through everything.

People always say, "He's just a dog."

But he was never *just* a dog.

He was the reason I stayed when I wanted to disappear.

The reason I smiled on days I couldn't find a reason to.

The reason I rushed home every afternoon because I knew there'd be a wagging tail waiting for me at the door.

So what happens now?

Who am I supposed to walk every evening?

Who's going to steal my socks and make me chase him around the house?

Who's going to grab the dishcloth when I turn my back for two seconds because he thinks it's the greatest game in the world?

Who's going to lick the tears off my face when I'm crying before anyone else even knows I am?

Every time life became too much, I'd tell myself,

*"It's okay. I have him."*

Now I keep looking at him, trying to memorize everything.

The way his ears move when he hears my voice.

The sound of his paws on the kitchen floor.

The way he looks at me like I'm his whole world, when the truth is... he has always been mine.

I keep wondering if he knows.

If he knows how many lives he's saved without ever realizing it.

If he knows that every extra cuddle, every muddy paw print, every chewed-up sock, every walk I thought we'd have forever... became the best parts of my life.

I already buried one piece of my heart in 2022 when I lost my childhood dog.

I never imagined I'd be standing here again, only four years later, preparing to lose another.

Everyone tells you that dogs don't live long enough.

They're right.

Because no matter whether it's twelve years...

Or two years and ten months...

It will never be enough.

And one day, I'll throw that ball for the last time.

He'll look back at me one last time to make sure I'm still there.

At the end of the day, we get asked many of the same ignorant questions. One of the most common is, "Who's the man in the relationship?" or "Who's the woman in the relationship?" My answer is always the same: if it's a gay relationship, they're both men. If it's a lesbian relationship, they're both women. That's the whole point. We're attracted to people of our own gender. We're not trying to fit into someone else's stereotypical idea of a man-and-woman relationship.

Some people argue that lesbians have it harder because they are constantly sexualized by straight men. That is absolutely a real problem, and it's something many lesbians experience. But gay men face their own stereotypes too. They are often compared to women or told they aren't "real men" simply because of their sexuality.

When many people think of a gay man, they immediately picture someone feminine, with a high-pitched voice, wearing makeup, or being interested in traditionally feminine things. There's nothing wrong with any of those traits, but they're stereotypes. Some gay men are like that, and many are not. Being gay does not automatically make someone feminine. In fact, there is no single way a gay man looks or acts. Any man could be gay, and you often wouldn't know because sexuality isn't determined by appearance.

The same applies to lesbians. When people think of a lesbian, they often imagine someone masculine, not interested in makeup, or someone who enjoys traditionally masculine activities. Again, those are stereotypes. Some lesbians fit that image, but many don't. Plenty of lesbians are feminine, and there is no specific appearance that makes someone look lesbian. Just like with gay men, sexuality cannot be determined by looks, interests, or personality.

When people think about gay men or lesbians, they should be thinking about all men and all women, because there is no single way to look gay or lesbian. Stereotypes erase the diversity that exists within our communities.

In my eyes, gay men and lesbians face many of the same struggles, just in different ways. We both deal with assumptions, prejudice, and people trying to force us into boxes that don't fit. As a lesbian, I want to be able to go out without being asked to have a threesome simply because some man sees my sexuality as his fantasy. Gay men deserve to go out without being told they're basically women or having their masculinity questioned because of who they love.

At least that's what we used to say.

Remember our little trio in high school?

A world built on inside jokes, promises, and laughter.

I don't think I've ever been happier.

Well... almost.

Because deep down, there was always a part of me that felt like the odd one out.

A quiet feeling I pushed away again and again,

because I loved you both too much to listen to it.

So I stayed.

I smiled through the hurt.

Ignored the moments that made me feel replaceable.

Pretended not to notice when I felt left behind.

Because I believed in us.

I believed in the plans we made.

When we're older, we'll go on holiday together.

We'll be at each other's weddings.

Even if life gets busy and we talk less,

we'll always have each other.

Forever.

Or so I thought.

The hardest part is that there was never an ending.

No fight.

No betrayal.

No final goodbye.

You both just slowly drifted away.

And I kept making excuses for it.

We're getting older.

Life is busy.

We'll see each other soon.

At least that's what I told myself.

So I kept trying.

I sent the messages.

I asked to meet up.

I tried to keep our friendship together with hands that were growing tired from holding on.

Every time the distance grew,

I crossed it.

Every time the silence got louder,

I filled it.

Until one day I looked around and realised

I was the only one trying.

The friendship didn't break.

It faded.

So slowly that I didn't even realise it was disappearing.

Not when the replies got shorter.

Not when the plans stopped.

Not when months passed without seeing each other.

October came and went.

Then November.

December.

January.

And somehow June arrived before I was ready.

Then one day I opened Instagram.

Just one story.

The two of you on holiday together,

laughing,

smiling,

making memories.

And suddenly every feeling I'd spent months trying to bury came rushing back.

I wasn't upset that you went on holiday.

I was upset because once upon a time,

that was supposed to be us.

Those were our plans.

Our promises.

The little future we built together in school,

when we were convinced nothing could pull us apart.

And in that moment,

my biggest fear became real.

The two people I loved most as friends had carried on without me.

It sounds silly when I say it out loud.

But it hurt.

It hurt so much that I couldn't breathe.

My chest tightened.

My hands shook.

My face was soaked with tears before I even realised I was crying.

And then came the panic.

Because that was the moment I finally understood.

Not when we stopped seeing each other.

Not when the messages became less frequent.

Not when I was always the one reaching out.

But then.

Looking at that story.

Realising that I had become a stranger in a life I once thought I would always be part of.

Maybe you don't miss me.

Maybe you don't think about me at all.

Maybe I'm just a chapter you've already finished.

But I still reread the pages.

I still remember every joke,

every promise,

every plan we made.

And maybe that's what hurts the most.

Not losing you.

Not even being left behind.

But never getting a goodbye.

Because a part of me is still waiting for one.

Still waiting for someone to tell me when "forever" ended.

Because while you were moving on,

I was still holding on.

And maybe that's why seeing that story hurt so much.

It wasn't the moment our friendship ended.

Before you, loneliness felt permanent.

For years, I convinced myself that maybe love was something meant for other people. I thought maybe I was destined to watch everyone else find their person while I stayed on the sidelines, too shy, too quiet, and too afraid to believe someone could ever choose me.

Then you appeared.

Not with some grand entrance, but with a simple message.

It's funny to think about now, because I almost never answer message requests. Yet for some reason, on that day, I opened yours. I replied. A small decision that seemed insignificant at the time, but ended up changing my entire life.

Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I hadn't.

Would we have never met?

Would I still be searching for something I couldn't find?

I'm just grateful I never have to know.

People can say what they want about long distance. They can tell me it won't work or that it's impossible. But they don't know what I feel when I talk to you. They don't know how easily you make me smile, how safe you make me feel, or how naturally you understand me.

I believe in us.

I believe that one day the screens, the calls, the waiting, and the miles between us will all be worth it. One day I'll finally get to see you standing in front of me instead of on a phone screen, and I already know it'll be one of the happiest moments of my life.

Until then, I'll keep staying up too late just to talk to you.

I'll keep smiling every time your name appears on my screen.

I'll keep getting excited over every message like a kid handed their favorite ice cream.

Because no conversation ever feels wasted when it's with you.

You accept me in a way nobody else ever has. You don't try to change me. You don't make me feel like I'm too much or not enough. You don't make me question myself.

You just let me be me.

And somehow, that's one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever done for me.

I spent years hoping for a love like this, wondering if I'd ever find someone who truly cared.

Then I found you.

Or maybe you found me.

Either way, I got lucky.

People might not believe me when I say I care more about personality and soul than looks, but it's true. The heart of a person will always matter more to me than anything else.

But even so...

You are absolutely beautiful.

The kind of beautiful that catches me off guard.

The kind of beautiful that makes me stare at your pictures and wonder how I got this lucky.

Because honestly, I still don't know.

I'm awkward sometimes.

I'm not always great at flirting.

Half the time I don't even know what I'm doing.

Yet somehow, out of everyone in this world, you chose me.

And that's something I'll never stop being grateful for.

You are my favorite notification.

My favorite conversation.

My favorite part of every day.

Nine in the morning,

I came home from a sleepover with my friends.

I'd only slept for an hour.

My friends had been sick during the night,

and I felt exhausted,

drained,

the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and follows you everywhere.

I was still wearing the same clothes from the day before.

The same makeup.

Too tired to care.

At eleven,

I went out with my mum,

my sisters,

my younger brother,

and the dog.

We spent hours at the dog park.

The sun moved slowly across the sky,

dogs running,

people laughing,

nothing unusual,

nothing memorable.

We got home around four.

Dinner came and went.

At half past five,

my mum and sister left for bingo.

I fell asleep for a while,

trying to recover from the lack of sleep.

By seven o'clock,

I was walking my younger brother down to the bingo hall.

The street was familiar.

A route I'd taken before.

The kind of journey you don't think twice about.

As we walked up the steep hill,

I looked across the road.

Two men.

One standing with a dog.

One sitting on a bike.

At first I thought nothing of it.

People are everywhere.

I crossed the road and continued walking.

The evening suddenly felt quieter than before.

I could hear my own footsteps.

The sound of my brother walking beside me.

The distant traffic.

Nothing else.

As we got closer,

I became aware of them watching.

Not glancing.

Watching.

The kind of stare you can feel before you even look up.

I lowered my eyes and kept moving.

Just walk past.

Just keep going.

Then I heard it.

"You look gorgeous, sweetheart."

My stomach dropped.

I didn't answer.

I didn't even turn around.

I kept walking,

hoping silence would be enough.

Hoping that if I ignored it,

it would end there.

It didn't.

"You look pretty, darling."

The words followed me down the street.

I felt my face burn.

My chest tightened.

I didn't know what to do.

If I ignored them,

would they get angry?

If I answered,

would they take it as an invitation?

If I looked back,

would that encourage them?

Every option felt wrong.

So I kept walking.

My younger brother beside me.

Trying to act normal.

Trying not to show that suddenly every instinct in my body was screaming at me to leave.

I looked back for a split second.

A small,

polite smile.

Not because I wanted to.

Because girls are taught to be polite.

Even when they're uncomfortable.

Even when they're scared.

Even when every part of them wants to run.

I hoped it would make him leave me alone.

Instead,

I heard the sound of wheels.

The bike.

Moving.

At first it was distant.

Then closer.

Closer.

Closer.

The sound seemed unnaturally loud.

I turned my head.

He was following me.

Not riding away.

Not going in another direction.

Following.

My heart immediately started racing.

I could feel it pounding in my chest.

My hands suddenly felt cold.

I remember thinking:

Please leave.

Please stop.

Please go away.

But he didn't.

He kept calling after me.

Kept trying to get my attention.

Kept following.

The street that had felt normal only moments before suddenly felt far too long.

Every step felt slow.

Every second stretched out.

I became painfully aware of everything around me.

The empty spaces.

The distance between buildings.

How vulnerable I felt.

How young my brother looked walking beside me.

How quickly a normal evening had become something frightening.

I didn't know what he wanted.

I didn't know if he would stop.

I didn't know if he would get closer.

And not knowing was the worst part.

My mind was racing through every possibility at once.

I just wanted to get somewhere safe.

Somewhere with people.

Somewhere with a door I could lock behind me.

When the bingo hall finally came into view,

I felt relief wash over me.

I hurried forward.

Opened the door.

Stepped inside.

And shut it behind me.

For a moment,

I just stood there.

Listening.

Waiting.

Making sure he wasn't still outside.

Making sure he hadn't followed me.

Making sure he was gone.

Only then could I breathe properly.

But even inside,

the feeling didn't disappear.

I could still feel eyes on me.

Men looking me up and down.

Watching.

Staring.

Their eyes lingering longer than they should.

And suddenly I realised something that stayed with me long after that night:

Sometimes people think danger only exists in dark alleys,

empty streets,

or late hours.

But uncomfortable situations can happen on ordinary roads,

during ordinary evenings,

on completely ordinary days.

That's why awareness matters.

Because sometimes all it takes is one person refusing to leave you alone

for a normal walk home

Mentions of $h

12:27am

You're lying in bed watching a show you swear you love, but the screen is just colours and noise. You haven't followed the plot in half an hour. Maybe it's because your eyes won't stop flooding.

Funny how memories never knock before they enter.

They just crawl into your head and make themselves at home, dragging old wounds behind them. They make you question everything—your choices, your future, your existence.

The worst part is knowing it wasn't always like this.

For a while, things were okay. Not perfect, but bearable. You started believing you were finally getting better.

Then one bad day became a bad week.

A bad week became a bad month.

And suddenly you're staring at the same blade you promised yourself you'd never touch again.

A promise is easy to break when you're the only one who knows it was made.

You never told anyone how bad it got. Never told a single soul.

So the scars became your language instead.

Your left arm tells stories you could never say out loud. Your right thigh carries chapters nobody will ever read.

Isn't it strange?

You want the scars gone.

You hate the stares, the questions, the constant fear of being seen.

But at the same time, you want them to stay.

Because if they disappear, where's the evidence? Where's the proof that you survived those nights? The proof that the pain was real and not something you made up in your own head?

The nights are still the hardest.

Sleep feels like a distant memory. You toss and turn until your sheets are twisted around your legs. One hour feels like five. Five feels like forever.

Your siblings sleep peacefully beside you, completely unaware of the war happening inches away from them.

You don't even have your own room.

No space to fall apart.

No space to breathe.

No space to hurt in private.

And somehow you've been carrying this since 2023.

Three years.

Three whole years.

How?

It feels impossible.

At the same time, it feels like only yesterday that I first picked up that blade.

Three years reduced to a handful of blurry moments and sleepless nights.

Now it's 2026.

The world kept moving.

I didn't.

My soul feels hollow.

My smile feels rehearsed.

Even my eyes look different.

My own mother once said I looked like I wanted to kill someone.

The truth is, I never wanted to hurt anyone else.

I was the one hurting.

But people don't see that.

They see a lazy teenage girl.

A rude one.

A difficult one.

A broken one.

They don't see the tears wiped away before anyone walks into the room.

They don't see the panic hidden behind a forced laugh.

They don't see the nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering how someone can feel so empty and still keep breathing.

They only see what's on the surface.

And maybe that's the cruelest part of all.

I feel numb. I don’t feel real. It’s as if I’m watching my own life unfold without me, as though my soul stepped out and left behind a lifeless corpse running on autopilot.

But I do feel. I feel far too much—and somehow nothing at all.

Who am I?

I don’t know.

Ask me my favourite colour, my favourite food, my favourite hobby. I couldn’t tell you. I want to talk about my feelings, but what am I supposed to say when I don’t even know what I feel?

Nothing.

Or maybe everything.

I don’t have a personality anymore. I’ve faded into a machine, a mechanical robot that simply does what it’s programmed to do while I sit back and watch.

Make a decision? Choose something? There are too many options. I don’t know what I want because I don’t know anything about myself.

Only confusion.

The world spins around and around. Sometimes I feel dizzy, as if everything is moving and nobody else notices. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they can’t.

Nobody seems to think I’m different.

Maybe I’m not.

Maybe all of this is happening only inside my head.

But I feel numb.

I am numb.

I don’t feel real.

And sometimes I wonder—

The tunnel is long—so long that it feels endless.

Dark, gloomy, and suffocating, it’s a place you don’t want to be. Every part of you wants to leave, to see daylight again, but no matter how far you drive, the end remains hidden.

You press harder on the accelerator.

Faster.

Faster.

Faster.

Yet the tunnel refuses to end.

Time loses meaning. Minutes stretch into hours. The same walls surround you, the same darkness follows you. Frustration begins to grow. Then fear. Then something deeper that you can’t quite put into words.

The darkness feels alive, as though it’s slowly swallowing everything around you. You can only see what is directly ahead. Everything else is consumed by shadow.

Behind you is darkness too, but you’ve stopped looking back. Looking back won’t help you escape. All that matters now is finding a way forward.

So you keep driving.

And driving.

And driving.

But the tunnel goes on.

Eventually, doubt creeps in.

Does this road even have an end?

What if you’re trapped here?

What if this darkness is all there is?

What if you’ll be driving through it forever?

The questions echo through your mind louder than the sound of the engine.

But as the tunnel continues, something unexpected happens.

The darkness begins to feel familiar.

The road becomes routine.

What once terrified you becomes something you learn to live with. The shadows are still there, but they no longer feel quite so powerful. You stop fighting them every second. You stop measuring every mile. You stop searching desperately for an end you cannot yet see.

The darkness becomes your comfort because it is all you’ve known for so long.

And then, without warning, something changes.

A faint glow appears in the distance.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. A trick of the mind. Another passing light.

But it stays.

Growing brighter.

Growing closer.

Until finally, you realise what it is.

The end of the tunnel.

The darkness that once felt endless was never endless at all.

And as you drive toward the light, you understand something:

You were never stuck.

Still as a rock.

The rock never moved.

It never spoke.

It simply existed.

Day after day it sat in the same place, watching the world rush past. People came and went. They laughed, cried, loved, lost, grew older, and moved on.

The rock remained.

Stuck in a place everyone else had left behind.

Sometimes someone would notice it.

They would try to lift it.

They would pull and strain, determined not to leave it where it was.

But the rock was heavy.

The rock would not move.

Eventually their grip would loosen.

Eventually they would let go.

Again and again hands reached for the rock. Again and again those hands disappeared.

Why keep trying to carry something that refused to move?

So the rock was left where it had always been.

And after enough time, people forgot it was there.

The rock never forgot them.

It remembered every hand that touched it. Every attempt. Every goodbye.

Years passed.

The world continued.

Some people stepped over the rock. Others stepped on it. Most never noticed it at all.

Then the sea came.

The rock fought against the current, but the sea was patient.

It did not need to win all at once.

Wave after wave. Year after year.

The sea stripped pieces away.

Not enough to destroy the rock in a day.

Just enough to change it.

Until one day the rock was no longer a rock.

Only pebbles remained.

One pebble was carried to shore.

Someone picked it up.

For the first time, it wasn’t too heavy.

For the first time, it could be held.

The pebble clung to that moment.

Perhaps this was freedom.

Perhaps this was what it had waited for.

Perhaps now things would be different.

But the hand opened.

The pebble was thrown back.

Back into the sea.

Back into the depths.

Back into the place it had spent years trying to escape.

So it sank.

And it waited.

And after enough years beneath the water, the pebble began to understand something terrible.

The sea had never been trying to save it.

It had only been wearing it down.

Until eventually the pebble stopped fighting the current.

Stopped waiting for another hand.

Stopped believing the shore would keep it.

And there, in the silence beneath the waves, the pebble finally accepted where it belonged.

But this was never about a rock.

‘Unmasking the Savior’

“The hero-saviour,idol, paragon of bravery and strength. Their past is an open book, their story a well-worn tale, their trustworthiness unquestioned.

At there word, we judge. They say ‘bad’, and so it is. ‘Stay away’, They warn, and we comply. ‘Do not trust’, they command, and we obey.

Everyone is saved, it seems, except me. At my approach, they scatter. They heed the hero’s words and keep distance.

Yes, I embrace the title of the villain. The one who darkens the day, evokes hatred, embodies ugliness, unkindness, and weakness.

My past remains a mystery, my story untold, my trustworthiness unexamined.

I cry for help, and my voice is lost. I act out, and my flaws are magnified. I apologise, but my words ring hollow.

No one believes that the hero has caused me the greatest harm. Why would they suspect their beloved of inflicting pain?

The truth of the hero and villain remains hidden.

‘Hero’ is but a title, a mask for the truth. I know this because I bear the scars of their actions.

Exhausted from the long day but unable to sleep because of the heat.

Irritated. You become irritated when all you can feel is the heat. Tossing and turning in your bed, your head where your feet should be and your feet where your head should be, but no matter how much you turn the heat doesn’t disappear. Maybe for a split second when you move to the colder part of the bed, but it was never really cold. It had already heated up too.

The only thing you can hear is a small buzz and your sister snoring away, sleep talking even.

Frustrated. Now you’re frustrated. All you want is sleep but sleep doesn’t want you.

The room is dark, pitch black. Your eyes still haven’t adjusted from being on your phone.

Remember that one girl back in high school who you fell in love with but never told her? Even you didn’t understand your feelings until it was too late.

You did everything for her. Your reason for everything was her. But you knew she wasn’t good for you. Always betraying you. Probably talked shit about you too. Friends with the people who bullied you.

They hated you. Really, really hated you.

But you ignored that fact and put them first anyway. You didn’t know why. You still don’t know why. It was just easier to get through everything that way. I mean, you’d rather have 30 fake friends than none, right?

I remember the pushing, the kicking, the screaming. It still haunts me to this day. I can’t get over it, but they probably don’t even remember it happened.

I kicked back once, but obviously I was the one in the wrong.

Telling me to kill myself every day. After a while I believed it. Even planned it. Didn’t think I’d make it past 15.

Now look at me. I’m 18 and somehow doing worse.

I wish I could enjoy summer, but I can’t take off my jacket without revealing the thousands of scars down my arm. I can’t even say they’re from the past because it never stopped. 2023–ongoing.

Pain is the easiest way to keep your heart beating. Learned that at 14.

High school finished. Never heard from those people again. Well, for a while.

Then they started stalking my social media.

Honestly, I didn’t think they affected me that much until I saw them out on the streets. I could barely breathe. Frozen. I was frozen. Couldn’t say a word. Didn’t want to look at them.

They walk so easily. I walk in fear.

Even now, two years later, when I see them on the street they still make fun of me. I want to laugh it off, but the reality is I do care. Maybe too much.

But when you’re 14 and you go through this for years, eventually you start believing it.

Believing you’re not worth it.

Believing nobody will ever truly like you.

A slight breeze, clear water, barely anyone around. The hot sand between your toes, the smell of sea air hitting your face.

Then the wind picks up, cooling you down perfectly. You look out to sea and see black clouds beginning to form, the trees swaying harder with every gust. Everyone around you starts packing up to leave — but you stay.

You take in the air, the evening, the sun glistening across the water. Life feels peaceful in that moment. For once, you feel relaxed. Real.

Your hair sways in the strengthening wind, the sea growing rougher as sand blows across the beach.

The walk back leads through a forest that’s suddenly darker now. No people around. Leaves blowing past you, the smell of rain in the air, flashes of lightning breaking through the gaps in the trees. It feels like a scene straight out of a movie.

Small drops of rain begin falling through the branches, each one hitting your sun-warmed skin and cooling you slightly. Life feels unreal. Like you’re floating.

The drive home is quiet, the only sound being rain splattering against the windshield. Your vision blurred, seeing only headlights passing by in the dark. The sky rumbles above you as lightning strikes across the horizon.