I stopped believing in love the day my father looked me in the eye and said I ruined everything.
The man I thought I was the reason why he killed himself, the man I thought died because of me. The reason for my nightmares.
I was eighteen.
It was raining. The kind of rain that soaked through clothes and skin and spirit. I remember the sound of thunder, the slam of the door, and the echo of his voice telling me that I should never have been born.
That was the first time I realized some wounds don't bleed on the outside.
Years passed. I learned how to smile through silence. How to hide bruises—on my arms, in my heart. I learned how to stay quiet when I wanted to scream, and how to let people believe I was okay. Because no one really wants the truth. They just want you to be easy to love.
Then he came along.
He made me feel seen. Wanted. Special. For a while, I thought maybe—just maybe—I deserved something soft, something real. But he left scars too. The kind you can't explain to anyone without sounding crazy. The kind that makes you flinch when someone reaches out to care.
So I stopped hoping.
No more daydreams. No more fairytales. No more love.
Just me. Breathing. Existing. Surviving.
And then—he showed up.
With quiet eyes and patient hands. With no promises, no pity. He didn't ask me to love him. He just stayed.
And for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like I had to run.
But hearts like mine don't just break—they stay broken. And I don't know if I'm ready to be touched again.
Even by someone like him.