#writersupport

One quiet mistake?

Trying to fix everything alone.

Reading your own work so many times you stop seeing it clearly.

Sometimes what we need isn’t more rewriting, it’s another perspective.

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Unfortunately, I am my father’s daughter, not a daddy’s girl, and I will ruin you just as he ruined me.

It was the first lesson he taught me. Not in words, but in the way he left. In the silence that stretched across every room he wasn’t in, every memory that frayed and unraveled with the touch of time. He showed me how to ruin people, how to break them without ever lifting a hand. You don’t need fists to destroy something. All you need is to leave.

My first love was the night sky. That endless, indifferent everything was a mirror to my soul. I thought I could belong to it, be lost in the stars, be swallowed up whole. I’m made of stardust and my mother’s tears—what a fragile thing, a girl shaped by the cosmos and sorrow. I savoured the quiet, the stillness of night, when the only sound was the murmurs of my own thoughts. Even then, I couldn’t stop wondering if I was meant for more than this.

You, however, were never in a position to think about what you want. It’s your privilege, your flaw. In many ways, it’s an interruption of the will. Wanting things, desiring them, is an act of surrender. And you’re not the type to surrender. I always liked that about you. 

Unfortunately, I was raised on a diet of resentment and cold shoulders, and I’ve learned to turn it into something else. Something sharper. Your heart is all I know. It’s all I need to know. I can see it, beating in your chest, reckless, untamed, a constant reminder of everything I’ve never had. And I see you—I see the way you wear every emotion on your face, clear as day. 

Everything is possible once you stop hiding from yourself. But the truth is, I’ve never really been able to do that. Every time I face what’s inside me, I see his face—my father’s face—and the wreckage he left behind. I thought I could love freely, but love, for me, is always tainted with the fear of losing. It’s a hollow kind of love. A love that makes you take what you can while you still can, before it all slips through your fingers like sand.

All that I’ve done, I did it for love. But love, it never looks like what you think it will. Not when you’re used to loving with your teeth and claws, carving your own ravenous way through a world that only takes.

It is no small blessing that we are here today, standing in the light of this fragile moment. Humans are made to adapt, to survive. The strong survive, and the weak—well, they fade. I wasn’t made to feel joy or gladness, it’s not in my genes. I was made to feel the absence of it, and to keep moving forward anyway. To keep pretending like the void inside me isn’t growing larger by the day.

And you—you—you are wonderfully untamed. It’s a thing I envy. You don’t care about the consequences, don’t think about the cost. You’re alive in a way that I haven’t been in a long time, maybe ever. It’s simple, and yet, not easy. And I know you already understand that. I know you’ve tasted it.

One must feel weak before they choose to be strong, but humans—humans are stupid and selfish by design. We mimic the ways of prey. We run. We hide. We think we have control, but we don’t.

She doesn’t look at me. She sees. There’s a difference. She’s not blind. She’s not ignorant. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Why would I need input from you? What could you possibly tell me about who I am, when you’ve never had to live through what I’ve lived through? 

I tried to meet her gaze, but her eyes avoided mine, flicking down to the clay caked under her nails. It’s always something like that, isn’t it? When I try to make a connection, to feel something—anything—that could tie me to someone, to something, they simply slip away. Just like he did. Just like everyone else.

Back when I was easy to love, I thought maybe I could still be saved. Maybe if I gave enough, loved enough, maybe the world would finally give my lost youth back. But that’s not how it works, is it? You are loved, even when you’re hard to love. Especially when you’re hard to love, and forgotten when you are easy. Shame grows in secrecy.

I can be part of the problem or part of the solution. Today, I felt like being part of the problem. Because solutions are just another way of pretending everything’s okay. They aren’t. I’m not okay, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be.

My mother crushed my hopes and dreams often, out of love. She would say it was for my own good, but I never believed her. I’m just a girl who’s angry at her father. That deadbeat fuck - he left us all. Three families, and six broken hearts. I see how you could leave me, but them? How can you abandon not one, but three? That feckless ass, I hope he steps on glass, but I know he’d just leave that blood on the floor, just like he left the rest of us.

My home was never more than a shaky shelter. It was a place that cannibalized me, chewed me up, and picked its teeth with my bones. I wanted to run away since I was old enough to understand what running meant. To get away from the suffocating warmth of the rooms where love was a weapon, not a comfort. Where words, wielded like weapons, were used to break you down. Where hugs felt like a bear trap.

I know I’m stupid. I know I’m selfish. I know that’s what they say about people like me. But we were designed this way, weren’t we? We were designed to want, to take, to consume. And anyone who says otherwise—well, they have an agenda. Some things aren’t God’s fault. Some things are just human wrongs now baked into our dna.

If you spend your life hiding, in the end, you won’t have the strength to stand. So I opened all the doors and windows. I let the wind rush in. I let you in. You should feel lucky. I never open myself up to anyone. But for you, I made an exception.