The kettle clicks twice like it’s clearing its throat, a soft warning that morning is happening again. I sit at the kitchen table tracing circles in spilled sugar, trying to remember the last time I woke up because I wanted to. I was raised by a woman who swung between kindness and collapse, and a man who taught me silence by example. Some nights the floor shook with arguments I never understood, and some mornings my mother swore the bruise was an accident. I learned early that certain kinds of love come with their own weather. I learned to run before I learned to stay. You found me in that version of myself thin, twitching, hoping for someone to believe my stories. You touched my cheek like it was worth saving, and I didn’t know where to put that kind of mercy. If I fall again, let it be slow, let it be something I can name. I’ve carried too much of my childhood in the pockets of my adult shame. But you stood in the doorway and didn’t step back you saw the mess and still stayed intact. Addiction never walked in politely it kicked the door wide, laughed, made itself at home. Years blurred into plastic bottles and small decisions that grew teeth and bit down hard. I slept on tiles more than beds, woke to strangers calling me brother, then asking for favors I couldn’t afford. I kept your letters in a drawer beside the pills, like the two halves of a person I couldn’t reconcile. You called me at dawn once said the sky looked tired, said you did too. I said I’d meet you halfway. I never made it out the door. If I fall again, let it be slow, let it be something I can name. I’ve carried too much of my childhood in the pockets of my adult shame. But you stood in the doorway and didn’t step back you saw the mess and still stayed intact. The night I almost left for good, I wrote your name on the inside of my wrist, not as a promise, but as a reminder that someone once looked at me and didn’t see a waste of potential. I flushed the pills, held the sink until my arms went numb, waited to find out if the world would let me stay awake. When morning arrived, it didn’t congratulate me. It just existed, and for the first time in years, that was enough. I walked through the house like it might fall apart, but it didn’t maybe I was the fragile one all along. If I rise again, let it be quiet, let it be boring, let it be real. I don’t need epiphanies or second chances, just a reason to feel what I feel. And if you’re somewhere tracing your own scars, know I kept your letters close to my heart. You married someone gentle I saw the photos once, muted colors, soft smiles. You looked steady, like you finally trusted your own chest. I didn’t ruin the moment by reaching out. Some love survives by letting go, and some people teach you how to live just by leaving. I cleaned the kitchen that afternoon; the kettle clicked twice, as if asking if I planned to stay alive. I said yes. Out loud. Drums stagger, bass climbs, the world vibrates with all the words I never said. I stand in the center of the room no bottles, no needles, just me, and the echo of someone who once believed I could change. Maybe survival is a slow confession, one the body tells long before the mouth speaks. If I rise again, let it be quiet, let it be honest, let it be mine. I don’t owe the world an explanation; I owe myself the time. You left, and I learned the truth: some love is a wound that teaches you how to stop bleeding. I turn off the kettle, wipe the table clean, open the window for no reason at all. The air rolls in cool, simple, real. I stay.
