Scars Revealed, Scars Concealed
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- Parts 18
There are only three words to describe my life:
Twisted. Simply twisted.
Being ugly with a face full of scars is already more than I can take. Being treated unfairly because of that? Fate sucks. I've lived that life for already eighteen years. It has already become a normal thing for me. I thought that was it. My whole life.
Until things take a turn for the worse.
With a delirious mother, a lovesick younger sister, a dead-but-alive best friend and a tribute to the crazy, immortal king, my life would never be the same again.
What was I suppose to do? Run?
Oh please. How I would love to. If only he wasn't anchoring me here.
No. Running is not my style. My style? I go down fighting, till the very last second.
And this is a fight that may cost me everything, so failing is unthinkable.
I need to win.
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Every time our eyes met, it felt like joy itself recognized me-as if something sweet and familiar had been waiting just beneath the surface of ordinary days. The world was coming undone around me, losing shape, losing sense, and then you arrived-not as a solution, but as something given, something sacred, to make up for everything that never made sense. I don't know how to live forward without you-not well, not truthfully. I'm just one of your ordinary children, a strand in the thread of this wild, beautiful family, but if you're not woven in, I don't think the rest of the tapestry matters. I can't imagine a world for Kinsle where your voice doesn't rise somewhere in the wind, guiding, grounding, reminding us how to belong. I've never done well with change, with discomfort, with the unfamiliar-I've been enduring what everyone calls the "normal stuff," and none of it feels normal if you're not there. Who could ever be more than you? Who could ever outshine you? I never asked for much in this life-never longed for things, never chased material gold-pero mukhang hindi ko yata kaya na mawala ka sa akin. I don't think I could bear it. And yet, that's what people say. When they hold something so precious, their soul aches-they always say, "Hindi ko kakayanin kung mawawala ka." "Hindi ko kaya mamuhay ng wala ka." I say it too, but what makes me different? What would it take for this ache to be more than just another echo? Maybe it starts here-with trembling, with truth, with admitting that I've heard the words "Do not be afraid" more times than I can count, and still, I am. No one ever said that faith sometimes stutters. And that, too... might be holy.
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