A Short-lived Story

The distance grew and as silence fell, I began to worry. I worried for you. I worried for what we could have possibly become. I knew the conversation wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. I knew that it was likely going to be a bit rough.

So we met, and as immediately as I sat and we leaned in, touching shoulders, I could feel your impossibly heavy heart weighing you down.

You hold too much inside. Guilt. A need for vengeance, resolution, and understanding. A fear of letting down, of loving. You let me know you so quickly, and then you boarded up the windows and placed sandbags at your foundation, determined to keep the storm inside. Determined not to break me.

I haven’t known you long, but I feel like we’ve had an age of learning one another. We’ve both spilled our stories. In faintly whispered words, I poured our my history; of growing up, of learning to love, of having been broken, and of this process of rebuilding what was lost. Your stories wafted past your lips from clouded lungs and fell to the floor with such a weight. From a broken home and rapidly spent childhood, through the horrid bits and broken lives, you’ve lived and loved.

You are strong. You can put the pieces back together. Your wounds will heal.

You’re not the calamity that you believe yourself to be.


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