Life is a fragile thread, spun by hands we can't see, each moment a mix of creation and loss. Every start comes with an end. A baby is born, a mother fades. I learned this as a child, when my birth took my mother. Her death was hard, her body worn out from bringing me into the world. I was her beginning, and her end.
My father stepped up as both parents. He was tough, a provider, but not the comforting kind. He tried hard, but the warm, safe love I craved was tough for him to give. Split between two roles, he couldn't fill the gap. I learned young that some things, no matter how much you want them, slip through your fingers. Like chasing a shadow, you're left empty-handed.
To others, I was a happy kid. Neighbors liked my smile, said I was mature for my age. They didn't see the hurt I carried, the ache for a love that felt like home. I wasn't mature; I was hiding, covering up the emptiness inside.
Then came Carla. Her name still hurts. She was everything I needed—light, joy, a love that made me feel whole. With her, I wasn't lost anymore. But life doesn't play fair. A fire took her, burning her apartment and her life. I wasn't there, but I imagine her cries every night, calling for help that never came. She was gone, and my hope went with her.
I kept going for my father. His worn face urged me on: _Keep living today. Hold on for tomorrow._ So I did, moving through days that felt heavy and gray. College came, full of people and plans, but I felt stuck. On the last day, everyone tossed their caps in the air, excited for what's next. I held mine, feeling its weight. Did I even have a future?
I was set to visit my father. Cancer was taking him, stage four. I knew the end was coming, but not so fast. Then the call came. Nurse Jenny's voice shook: _"Your father has passed."_ Those words hit hard. I'd prepared, but not for this. The pieces of me, already cracked, fell apart. I wasn't just broken; I was scattered, like stars in a sky no one notices. Each piece remembered home, but couldn't find it.
I arranged his cremation, moving like a machine. The funeral was quiet—just me, a priest, and a black raven watching coldly. No family, no friends, just flames and stillness. I walked into dark streets, where even anger faded away. The park was empty, the sky heavy with rain. Birds waited to fly, feeling the storm. I wanted to let go, but even that felt out of reach.
I didn't cry at the cremation. My eyes were dry, like my heart had no tears left. I, who never prayed, dropped to my knees, asking for an end. The sky answered with thunder, rain falling like the tears I couldn't shed. The raven watched as the birds flew off. A bolt of lightning struck, hitting my chest—not with pain, but with calm. I wasn't happy or sad. I was empty.
Then I saw a figure, shadowy with wings, guiding the lightning to me. It felt like nature heard my plea. A deep voice whispered: _"This tired soul was bound to the world. Close the chapter."_
My story ends not in triumph or pain, but in silence. A life unraveled. The raven flies, the rain falls, and I am gone. A scattering of wounds, at rest, in a sky no one sees.