[𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒] [𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍]
Gabriel Sinclair was no saint, and he made no pretenses about it.
Ruthless, cunning, and unhinged -those words only begin to scratch the surface of his true nature.
Like a merciless hurricane, h...
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"Monsters don't sleep under your bed. They sleep inside your head."
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Time is often hailed as the ultimate healer, capable of easing the pain of sadness. But for me, sadness has always been elusive.
Resentment, deception, and helplessness are my companions instead.
The weight on my heart is relentless, like an oppressive fog that refuses to lift, dulling every moment with its suffocating presence.
So if sadness has never touched me, does this mean time holds no power to heal me? Am I condemned to carry this burden indefinitely?
These persistent thoughts haunt me. Deep down, I understand that this perpetual heaviness isn't solely of my own making. Or perhaps it is, in some convoluted fashion.
No matter how hard I try, satisfactory answers elude me. It's as if I'm fated to be plagued by it, regardless of fault or reason.
Perhaps dysfunction is my destiny from the start.
It's quite a grim perspective for someone who hasn't even experienced a quarter of their life, I'll concede. But when life seems to hold a longstanding grudge against you, you gradually learn to expect less and less. Lowering your expectations becomes a survival mechanism—so you're not blindsided when things go awry, because you've learned not to anticipate them going well.
Hope, I've learned, can be a cruel, deceitful mirage.
It promises relief but delivers only disappointment, leaving behind an enduring ache that refuses to dissipate.
The scars may vanish from view, yet beneath the surface, the wounds persist like embers smoldering in the depths of a forgotten flame, poised to flare up with the slightest of touches.
Therefore, I've resigned myself to the charade of normalcy, pretending everything is fine. But it never makes things easier, nor does it fool my relatives. They still cast me as the black sheep, foolishly believing their disdain would force me to conform to their narrow expectations.
What a rotten band of hypocrites.
I don't care if they see my contempt—in fact, it's so palpable that everyone keeps their distance, as if my perceived toxicity might infect them by association.
I guess judgment is the easier road.
Perhaps that's why my parents never truly understand, or maybe they simply choose not to. Once, I hold onto the naive hope that time will soften their hearts and foster empathy between us. Instead, the gap widens, fueled by flames that consume the bridge disconnecting us day by day.
